


The Importance of Touch

by lemoninagin



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Technology, Awkward Boners, Bonding, Canon Compliant, Childhood Memories, Cohabitation, Cringe Inducing Flirting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Dream Sex, Drug Use, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Smut, F/F, Greek and Norse Mythology - Freeform, Homesickness, Hurt/Comfort, Hypersensitive Keith, M/M, Masturbation, Memory Magic, Mutual Pining, Past Child Abuse, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Sleeping Together, Sleepy Cuddles, Slow Burn, Takes place during late s2, Team Building Exercises, Telepathic Bond, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Touch-Starved Keith (Voltron), Touchy-feely Lance, Travel to other planets, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2018-08-23 01:56:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 87,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8309332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemoninagin/pseuds/lemoninagin
Summary: Proceeding to have an existential crisis while your supposed rival is nestled happily between your thighs isn’t really an ideal situation to be in, is the conclusion that Lance comes to as he reflects on all that’s happened within the past few days following what he’s started referring to as, ‘the night everything got a whole lot more homoerotic than usual’.But it’s the third night in a row that he finds himself in this exact same situation, and he’s starting to run out of excuses about why this keeps happening, or on how to explain what the fuck is even going on between them anymore.





	1. Bitter Pill

Lance had never really considered himself to be the “touchy-feely” sort, as Pidge liked to teasingly call him. He’d always grown up in a high contact household, so he didn’t think much of his tendency to want to be physically close to others in any way he could. His mother often reiterated how important touch was, that children left without physical affection would grow up to be unhappy and emotionally stunted, malnourished, or could sometimes even die.

There was no sort of wall around touch in their home. Wrestling, tickling, hugging, high-fiving, back-patting, hair-petting, cuddling, shoulder-slapping—there was always some sort of skin-on-skin contact going on, though his mother didn’t much approve of him using the excuse of, ‘ _But you said touch was good!_ ’ whenever he put Hector in a headlock, pushed Georgina off the swings, or pulled on Maritza’s pigtails

She had sighed one day in exasperation at his antics, gave him a sharp pinch on the arm, and said sternly, _‘Here’s a touch that isn’t so good. There are positive and negative ways to touch people, mijo, and you better learn the difference now_ ’. So she patiently taught him to braid Maritza’s hair rather than pull it out, encouraged him to help hold and rock his younger cousins to sleep when they were still infants and his Aunt wasn’t able to with her hands occupied going about different tasks during the day. When he gained another little cousin, added to his list of responsibilities as he grew older were bathing, feeding, and diaper changing, too. He didn’t understand how that all fell into the category of ‘important positive touching’, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to question his mother again.

They didn’t have a lot of money growing up either, and he’d shared a bed with his brothers until he was ten, as well as bathed with them until he hit puberty. It was normal to spend most of the rarely cold winters huddled up with his family in a giant dog pile of limbs and blankets, to wake up with someone’s butt or foot in your face and not really give two shits about it.

They didn’t always bother closing doors when they went to the bathroom. They complained loudly and lovingly about things others might say was too much information, but there was never any griping about whether they ‘should maybe have more boundaries’. It was commonplace to live without constantly worrying if it was or wasn’t an okay time to hug someone—and Lance surely never felt like he was invading anyone’s personal space. It wasn’t really something you asked about anyway, so much as the fact that it was just something you _did_ , and no one seemed to mind it.

All in all, like most children eventually learned, Lance discovered that there were definitely unacceptable ways to touch, and that he surely didn’t want to seriously hurt anyone. He was grateful for those lessons from his mother, even if he still choke-holded the shit out of Hector away from her watchful view whenever he got the chance.

But this sort of ideology wasn’t unique to his household by a long shot, as every family he knew seemed to be like this. Things were easier for Lance then, carefree and comforting. Family get togethers and neighborhood ones alike were loud, rambunctious, and a constant state of celebration. His fondest memories were of parties by the beach, of watching his father and brothers joining hands, leaning on and hugging their friends as they all drunkenly sang together.

He would play wrestle with his own friends in the sand, tackle and grapple with them in the waves until they were all too exhausted to move, and then they'd proceed to curl up in a pile on a towel and sleep the day away. There was no taboo over wanting to be that close to others, no second guessing whether he had crossed a line by holding a friend’s hand, or that he had cuddled “too much” with them. He honestly never thought anything of it until he left home.

He’d had quite the culture shock to say the least when he’d first gone abroad and enlisted in the Galaxy Garrison. People began telling him he was always in their “bubble”, that he talked too close and too loud, which made them uneasy. They raised their eyebrows whenever he made eye contact for what they deemed as a “creepy long amount of time”, took steps back whenever he gestured wildly with his hands like he always had. They said that it was weird when he greeted strangers by hugging them, and they would often misinterpret his automatic gesture of kissing cheeks as a flirtation method (to be fair, however, he had to admit that sometimes it was).

In those first few months of enrollment, he’d been smacked more times than he could keep track of since he’d been a young teen hopelessly trying to hit on girls. And for the first time in his entire life, Lance remembered feeling self-conscious about those little bits of intimacy and affection that had always been greatly encouraged and came second nature to him. He felt oddly put on the spot and awkward, got an undercurrent of a feeling like he was doing something wrong. He stopped giving hugs and kisses, started keeping to himself more, despite continuing to show off his boisterous, outgoing attitude.

Meeting Hunk not long later had been the greatest relief, as he even went through a slight withdrawal from not being able to express himself through touch like he was used to. Hunk had no limits or weird preconceived notions about hugging—and for sure he hugged often, tightly and to the point where sometimes Lance felt like he might break in half, though admittedly in a good way.

Having been raised similarly, the two were able to bond and express their frustration with the odd game of chicken people there seemed to do in order to avoid any sort of contact that wasn't mechanically on the surface. For a while, things were simple again. Pidge still teased them, Hunk and Lance would tell her she was ‘just jealous of how cool and close they were’, and really, that was that.

But out in the cold depths of space, Lance found that Hunk’s amazing hugs weren’t quite satiating his need like they used to. That Shiro’s one handed ‘good job team’ pats somehow left him feeling emptier than ever. Even Pidge hitting him whenever he said something stupid didn’t have that familiar comforting ‘genuine sibling rivalry’ feel to it anymore.

This bizarre emptiness permeated his thoughts a lot lately, and he felt like he wasn’t connected enough to the people around him, even as he leaned up against Hunk after training or playfully ruffled Pidge’s hair. All his desperate thoughts of how to replace this void that only touch ever seemed to be able to fill appeared to be in vain, because how could you fill something that apparently was already being done?

Lance felt drawn to wanting more somehow, but not from Hunk or Shiro or Pidge, and really not from just anyone else on the ship. That was when he began to realize, despite everything he stood for, that maybe he _was_ getting slightly picky about who touched him and who he wanted to touch. Maybe the foreign customs of America and then the even stranger, newer ones of space had finally started changing him, finally succeeded in making him feel bad about being who he always was used to being.

In any case, there was something terribly wrong with him. Maybe he was getting sick from how much he missed being home, as he was now infinitely farther away—and perhaps even permanently. Maybe this homesickness was actually going to kill him. He even feared for a brief time that if he didn’t have a decent cuddle-session with someone soon, he might wither away and die, much like his mother used to talk about happening to unloved babies.

It didn’t help, that one late night after training all day, he finally discovered that he placed this new particular desire as wanting to be fulfilled by _Keith—_ and _only_ Keith.

It was at that time, sitting at the opposite end of the couch in the main lounging area and watching Keith warily as he looked close to falling asleep sitting up, Lance decided that he wasn’t getting sick, but actually going insane.

The urge started normally enough—to crawl closer, to wrap an arm around Keith and offer a shoulder to sleep on. For almost half an hour, Keith’s eyes had been fluttering open and shut as he struggled to stay awake. He’d lose the battle and nod forward, only to fall into nothing but air and jolt back up, wide eyed and alarmed, then repeat the whole process a few minutes later.

Halfway on his journey to scooching closer to Keith, Lance had stopped, reassessed the situation, and decided that something was admittedly off about it all. He was suddenly apprehensive, and a nervous, cold sweat broke out on his neck.

Lance didn’t know why he was making such a big deal out of actually letting Keith sleep on him considering that was something he did for friends and family all the time before, but there was something—something about the whole thing that made him feel incredibly anxious, that made his stomach start doing strange little somersaults up into his chest.

He didn’t understand. He’d offered his shoulder and lap as makeshifts pillows to anyone and everyone practically thousands of times over ever since he was a young boy. He’d begun uncharacteristically feeling annoyed, wondered why Keith didn’t just get up and go the fuck to bed so he could suffer these terrible new feelings alone in peace.

Only seconds later, Lance guiltily considered that maybe Keith had been too tired and afraid of face planting on the way there to try attempting that, and he was kind of being a dick about the whole thing for no real reason.

So Lance sat there awkwardly sneaking glances at him instead, crossing and uncrossing his legs, shifting from lying back and sitting up. He wanted to take a small nap himself, but couldn’t seem to get comfortable in any position, unusually acutely aware of the proximity between them. Everyone else had already gone back to their rooms, and a steady, peaceful silence had fallen over them.

Lance kept getting his attention drawn to Keith’s little yawns, to the small noises he made with each one. He found them cute in a way that was distinctly unlike how he fondly used to laugh whenever his younger siblings got overtired. It was adorable beyond what proper words could express, and he’d stared for much longer simply taking in the minor details about the boy that he’d never really focused on before, like the way Keith’s yawns blew out large tufts of his hair, and how it would startle him whenever some of it got caught between his lips accidentally when he inhaled.

He noticed that Keith had a few faint freckles dusted over his pale face, that he had very prominent bags under his eyes. When Lance started focusing farther down, lingering on the shape of Keith’s lips, he’d rubbed his eyes, tried to focus by tearing his gaze elsewhere.

That’s when what he dubbed as “even more fucked up thoughts” started coming. He wanted to touch Keith’s hair, to rake his fingers through the strands, to caress his cheek and maybe give him a kiss on his forehead as Keith dozed soundly on his shoulder. It looked so soft and pretty in the dim light, ringlets forming around his cheeks after sweat from sparring had drenched it slightly curly, and Lance wanted nothing more just then than to reach out and touch it.

There was nothing abnormal about wanting to touch someone’s hair, he had thought, but there was _probably_ something not so normal about wanting to deeply inhale the smell of it, to maybe move that imaginary caress down and drag it across a person’s full, pouty lips.

Lance had been about to stand and rush to his room to get some sleep himself, because clearly he needed it even more than Keith, when at that very moment, Keith lost his battle with consciousness for good. He’d fallen back, slumped over to the side, and ended up with his head right in Lance’s lap. Having not really been paying attention as his thoughts had wandered, Lance had subconsciously been creeping a little closer to Keith anyway. Describing his subsequent reaction as anything short of panic would have been an understatement.

“Shit, what...what’s happening... ” Keith said with a drowsy slur, waking instantly from hitting his head on something solid. There were a few seconds that he stared blearily around before realizing what had happened, and he jolted up and looked abashedly at Lance while Lance short-circuited internally. With one hand rubbing against the back of his neck, he’d muttered, “Oh, uh, sorry. Didn’t mean to get up in your space. Guess I should probably go to bed.”

There might have been a few rational explanations for why Lance did what he did next. It could have been the comment ‘get up in your space’ combined with the fact that Keith was acting like he’d done something particularly bad that triggered it. It might also have been the ingrained instinct he had to casually brush it off as 'the no big deal' that it was and offer physical comfort.

It didn’t matter, really. Before he knew it, his mouth had spoken against the conflict currently happening in his brain.

And it had only been downhill from that moment, because the only thing Lance responded with—despite every alarm going off in his head right then to tell Keith that ‘ _yeah, you should get to your own bed in your own room, far, far away from me’—_ was stupidly:

“Naw, it’s fine, buddy. Just lay back down if you want. If you’re too tired to stay awake right now, you’ll probably be too tired to try and walk that far away.”

Keith didn’t fight him, or try to say anything snarky. Keith didn’t even say anything else.

Apparently, Keith had been too tired to protest fuck all, because he took one last weary, level look at Lance before yawning wide, and then settled himself right back down where he’d been.

In the what felt like years that followed while Keith slept, Lance repeated over and over to himself that there was nothing different or weird about this, that this was just like any other innocent time he had people use his lap as a pillow. He’d tried to convince himself that Keith curled up into a ball with his head pressed so warm and snug against his thighs, with that look of utter bliss on his face as he smiled slightly as he slept, was definitely not making his skin feel hotter than normal.

When he admired the way Keith’s silky, shining hair fanned out over the folds of his pants, and tentatively began stroking it like he had wanted to earlier, his mantra reassured him that it was totally the most normal thing in the world to do.

But when Keith, who honestly didn’t strike him as much of the cuddling type at all—and by all accounts, Lance had never once witnessed him do anything but flinch whenever anyone made a move to touch him—shifted and stretched his arms, smiled wider, and pushed back into the gentle scratching on his scalp while nuzzling further into his lap like a happy cat, Lance pretty much forgot all pretense of why he wasn’t supposed to think this was weird because, well—this shit was weird.

And it _was_ most definitely different, and there wasn’t much he could say was too innocent about it anymore when his pants began feeling a lot tighter, either. Conflictingly, and only adding to his confusion, was the fact that this mild show of affection was doing things to him that no amount of touching had ever satiated in him before. It was honestly the single greatest feeling he’d ever experienced.

That void in his gut began to fill, piece by piece, satisfying like a puzzle finally coming together after years of working relentlessly on it. He felt like he could die happy right there, with Keith snuggling in his arms, just relishing in brushing and sifting the strands of his hair between his tingling fingers.

This _wasn’t_ familial or friendly affection, though he couldn’t say that this contact had completely eased his stressed nerves so much as they had frayed away every last bit of rational thought in him. There was nothing else he could do at the time but run his fingers more subtly through Keith’s hair than before, try and keep him from shifting any closer to his groin, and hope to god that Keith wouldn’t take longer than a five minute nap.

...Which he sure as shit didn’t. The fucking pretty bastard slept like a goddamn baby for almost two hours straight while Lance panicked into the gayest ass hell of his entire 19 years of life.

Proceeding to have an existential crisis while your supposed rival is nestled happily between your thighs isn’t really an ideal situation to be in, is the conclusion Lance comes to as he reflects on all that’s happened within the past few days following what he’s started referring to as, ‘the night everything got a whole lot more homoerotic than usual’.

But it’s the third night in a row that he finds himself in this exact same situation, and he’s starting to run out of excuses about why this keeps happening, or on how to explain what the fuck is even going on between them anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone gave me a not-so-innocent prompt on tumblr to make Lance have an obsession with Keith’s hair and then proceed to find out he has a kink for it being pulled, and I took that, and somehow fucking wrote...this. Sorry, anon. I'm really, seriously sorry.
> 
> Also, it was supposed to be a one-shot, and now it’s most definitely not. So maybe there is hope for filth yet? Maybe? Anyone? Bueller? Anyway, enjoy the intro to what is likely to be a long ride straight into the depths of hell (eventually).


	2. The First Morning After is Always the Hardest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A murder occurs, and it's brutal.

Keith slowly wakes to the worried sounding words, “Oh man, I think he’s dead. He usually always wakes up instantly whenever I make a jab at Lance. Should we get Shiro?”

“Do you think he’d have given me his bayard in his will?” A higher pitched voice, sharp and grating, filters through the fog that’s settled over him from pleasant dreams he can’t quite remember, but that leave a happy sort of buzz under his skin. “‘Cause I’m _so_ taking that thing, either way. Red, too.”

Groaning, Keith tells the voices in what he hopes is a stern manner to fuck off, and that if they so much as touch Red, he’ll kill them. Wincing, he tries to pull the blanket over his head to block their conversation out. He quickly discovers there isn’t one as his hands slice through nothing but air, so he huffs and turns onto his other side, wishing he could press a snooze button on live sound.

“Ha, told you that would work.”

“Oi, Keith.” That first voice is dragging him fully from sleep, calling him softly. A finger carefully prods his shoulder. “Did you really sleep out here all night? Dude, that’s not good for your back. You really shouldn’t do that.”

“Wasn’t Lance out here with you before we all left last night?” The other voice snickers as Keith fights to pull himself from the remaining grogginess of the deepest sleep he’s had in what he thinks is probably months. “Weird. I thought he would have carried you to bed like a prin—ow!”

“Pidge, whoah. Cool it, he just woke up.”

The voices around him are too loud and disorienting, and all Keith wants to do is curl back up into the nice, warm…

“Lance..?” he wonders, reaching a hand out to...what, he doesn’t really know. His eyes flutter open, trying to focus on the two people-shaped blobs that appear to be inspecting him. One is mostly green, the other yellow-ish. It takes him a second to realize he’s on the couch still, and another few to notice, with a sort of aching drop in his stomach, that neither of these blobs is blue.

“Sorry,” twitters the green blob, “I guess he’s not one to stay for the morning after.”

“Pidge, c’mon, seriously. Stop.”

Keith’s sitting up fast, much faster than his body thinks is appropriate as the blood rushes through him, causing an acute attack of dizziness. As he rubs his eyes and steadies himself against the cushions, he tries to recall how he got out here, what happened before he slept. He could have sworn the last thing he saw was Lance smiling gently down at him, but that doesn’t sound right at all. His hand absently comes to touch his hair as he mulls over these strange thoughts.

“Hey, hey, careful, there’s no rush. Allura says we don’t have any missions today, so just take it easy,” Hunk placates, his worried expression matching with his voice as he comes into focus and eases his hands towards Keith. “We just wanted to make sure you got up to eat before we do those team building exercise thingys Coran’s been bugging us about. It’s kind of late, so we all already ate.”

Pidge adjusts her glasses, smirking. “Love the new style,” she drawls as she gestures to him, “But may I recommend that you don’t go out in the hall looking like a douchebag? It’s really not you. And some other people may get the wrong idea, you know...”

“What are you...” The words come out raspy, annoyed. Keith clears his throat, tries to recenter his rising temper. He’d never been much of a morning person, but he doesn’t want to snap at them when they’re simply showing concern for him. Not really understanding exactly what Pidge is getting at, he focuses on sitting up without leaning on anything. That’s when he feels the weight of something heavy that seems to cling to his shoulders.

Sliding off the extra layer he doesn’t remember falling asleep with, he stares curiously at the jacket bunched in his hands. With a flush blossoming hot against his cheeks, he traces the worn material of a cargo jacket that most definitely isn’t his.

He can’t remember being this confused since Shiro tried to explain the dynamics of the game _‘Go_ ’, or maybe that other time when Hunk attempted to teach him nuances of slang and popular culture that had gotten big during the time he’d lived in the desert, all while Pidge laughed at his failure to grasp their meaning. Whatever, the dabbing craze was dumb, and it didn’t matter in space anymore anyway.

“Uh, thanks guys. I’ll, um. Meet you all in a second.”

Pidge opens her mouth to say something else, but Hunk ushers her away before she can probably spout off more inappropriate things. Keith shares a relieved, thankful look with him before they disappear down the hallway.

Keith rubs his head, fingers smoothing over the tufts of hair he can feel sticking up as he yawns away the last of his tiredness. Surprisingly, he feels a lot more refreshed than he usually does, considering he passed out in such a weird place again.

It’s when he’s lifting up his shirt to scratch his stomach, and then stretching and twisting to work out the cricks in his back, that the images flood back to him like a truck smacking full force into his face.

_Falling into a warm lap, fingers raking through his hair, a soft lulling voice saying some indecipherable words to him, smells like peppermint and suntan lotion permeating his senses, a drowsy feeling of peace and some confusing, new unnamed emotions._

“Oh,” he says aloud, feeling a little faint.

 _Warm, comfy laps and gentle smiles_.

Keith pulls a face. “Oh, god.”

His fingers fiddle with his hair again, and he stares at the strands captured between them accusatorily, as if they can somehow be held responsible.

_Stroking his hair, murmuring soothing things._

“Oh, no.”

He grits his teeth at the sight of the jacket crumpled innocently next to him.

_Stupid, shitty cargo jacket._

_“_ Oh _, shit_.”

 

* * *

 

Lance enters the kitchen happily whistling with a bounce in his step, only to abruptly have his good mood cut short when something viciously gets thrown into his face. Crying out, he stumbles back from the force.

"Ow, what the fu—”

Keith comes into view as Lance tears the thing off his head, glaring at him with his fists up like he has every intention to fight him right there. In his hand, Lance faintly recognizes his jacket. Immediately, he pivots on his foot and turns right back towards the door.

“Oh yeah, you know what? I just remembered I had something _super_ urgent to do right now, I’ll come back another ti—”

“Did you fucking _sleep with me_ last night?!”

Lance’s ears burn. He stops in his tracks and cringes. Gulping, he turns to look over his shoulder, and says softly, pleadingly almost, “Holy shit, _please_ do not say it like that.”

“What the hell else should I call it?” Keith grits, loud and enraged in a way completely foreign from how he acted the night before. Lance almost can’t believe this is the same person, but then again—it’s _Keith_ , so he can.

Keith spreads his arms out wide, then jabs a finger in Lance’s direction. “I don’t know how or why it happened, but you made me use your lap as a pillow! You forcibly cradled my head between your legs while you slept with me!”

If Lance hadn’t felt so much like sinking into the floor in embarrassment right then, he might have tried to explain exactly what was wrong with the way Keith phrased all of that more thoroughly, but as it stood at the moment, he sort of just wants to leave.

Or maybe fight back a little. Yeah, maybe fight a little first, and then leave to freak out in the safety of his room.

“Wait, wait, wait, excuse me? _I_ _made_ _you_?” Lance snorts, crosses his arms, and faces Keith fully again. “ _You’re_ the one who fell into it first, I didn’t do shit.”

“What?” Keith deflates somewhat, shoulders sagging. His finger weighs down through the air, pointing less enthusiastically. “N-no, I wouldn’t do that, that’s dumb. Your lap is probably full of germs, don’t be gross.”

Lance can’t believe Keith is acting like some kid talking about catching cooties on a playground. He rolls his eyes.

“Keith, you need to fucking sleep more or whatever. You face planted into my lap dude, and I was just being nice, okay?” Lance huffs, pulling his arms into the sleeves of his jacket and shrugging it on. He tries to ignore the added scent which wafts over him that isn’t his own.

“But why would _I—_ ” Keith stutters before correcting himself, because clearly shifting blame onto Lance is more appropriate to him. “Wait, why would _you_..?”

Lance tries to play it off like he’s the chillest guy in the world, like every bro that ever bro’d lended their lap for their sleepy bro. Keith doesn’t understand. Where he’s from, it’s normal, it’s natural. Keith’s being childish and super close-minded.

It didn’t mean anything. If you cradled someone’s head in your lap practically a million times before, what was one more time? And sometimes, if that head cradling lead to you popping an awkward boner or two along the way, it was a small price to pay for being a decent human being.

It was no big deal.

“Because, I’m a great guy, _obviously_.”

Lance juts a thumb towards himself and beams, and Keith’s glare bursts through his confusion, renewed with the heat of a thousand stubborn mullet-headed suns. He puts the feeble finger he’d been pointing away, and settles one hand on his hip instead. “But you’re...really not.”

Lance is about two seconds away from taking Keith up on his offer to fight him. How dare he not agree that he’s a great guy! You let a man graciously sleep on your lap for two hours, and this is the way he repays you? Honestly.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Lance sighs, running a hand through his hair to keep from completely losing his cool, “You were a little delirious.” He mumbles the words, ‘and obviously I was too’ to the side, blowing out an angry puff of air.

Keith’s eyes light up as if he’s having an ‘ah-ha’ moment. His finger jabs at Lance’s chest with renewed vigor. “So you _did_ take advantage of me!”

“Oh my god, Keith,” Lance groans, slapping a hand to his forehead and hoping to god no one else stumbles upon this weirdly suggestive argument, “Please stop...stop saying things in really weird ways. It wasn’t like that, I wasn’t ‘taking advantage of you’, christ...”

It pains Lance to even say those ridiculous words. His face is feeling a lot hotter than usual. He knew this had been a bad idea from the start.

“You…” Lance trails off, trying to find the right way to explain. Keith quirks an eyebrow when he drags into an uncharacteristic silence.

Lance ignores a flood of unwanted images then, of Keith keening into his touch, of him nuzzling closer to him happily, of the softness of silky hair slipping between his fingers. He shakes his head, shoves his hands in his pockets.

“You just looked like you could use the rest, alright? Don’t worry, it won’t happen again.” He turns his back to Keith. “By the way, the others wanted me to get you for that training thing, it’s starting in a few minutes.”

And then he’s stalking out as quick as his legs can carry him, not daring to look back at the disgust he’s sure he’ll continue to find in the lines of Keith’s scowling face.

 

* * *

 

“Paladins, as Allura’s unofficial, but technical second-in-command, she has given me permission to guide you all through this week’s team-building exercise! Hopefully, we won’t have a rerun of last week’s _disaster_.” Coran looks pointedly at Pidge and Hunk, who turn away and whistle. He sighs and raises a finger. “Remember, explosives should never, _ever_ be used to accelerate fuel to work faster in your jet packs. I don’t care if it may ‘work in theory’ in the hull of the ships. You all are _not_ ships, and we really don’t want anyone losing body parts, now do we? So let’s not do that again, alright?”

Everyone nods. Keith stands stiffly with his arms crossed, not paying much attention as Coran rambles on, acutely aware of Lance fidgeting back and forth on his heels as far away as he physically can be from him in their semi-circle.

“Also, because of that, we won’t be doing any height related activities this time around either. At least not until we get all those pesky scorch marks cleaned off the ceiling and jet packs reassembled.”

Lance raises his hand.

“No, you may not use Shiro’s arm as an accelarant either.”

Lance drops his hand, cursing under his breath about how lame this all is as he scuffs his shoes on the floor.

“Look, people. We don’t have time to dilly-dally anymore. You all still need to learn to work better together, _clearly_ ,” Coran emphasizes this by letting his eyes passively linger right in his direction, and then to Lance.

Keith almost opens his mouth to give him a piece of his mind—it wasn’t _his_ damn fault that he and Lance fought so much last time that he ended up getting distracted and put the wrong amount of butane in the jet pack—before Shiro speaks up from behind him.

“It’s alright, Coran. We’ll do whatever it takes to form Voltron and work together as the team I know we all can be.” He smiles encouragingly around at them. “So let’s get to it, and try our best.”

Lance raises his head at around the same time that Shiro claps a hand onto Keith’s shoulder. Keith tenses at the touch. No matter how many times Shiro or another one of his teammates does something similar, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to get used to the way it sends an unpleasant itch skittering across his skin.

He falters in that thought as he thinks about careful fingers working over his scalp, and the complete absence of any rash-like symptoms during that time. Lance is watching him with furrowed brows then, his line of sight directed at Shiro’s arm at his shoulder. Keith doesn’t want to have to think about this anymore than he already has.

Luckily, Shiro moves and Lance quits staring, and Coran goes into more detail about their task. Which, as expected of Coran’s very surface level-explanations, isn’t nearly as easy as he makes it sound.

Five blue floating led blocks blip into existence before them, dotting a crooked path from one end of the training deck to the other. They’re at least a hundred feet from the ground and shifting rapidly, some from left to right, some up and down. The whole thing reminds Keith of a more than frustrating video game he once played as Coran explains that they all must cross the floor using only the blocks—which just so happen to be pressure censored, and they somehow have to keep a constant weight on each one as they move, apparently in unison, across the treacherous path.

They get about a few seconds to readjust the weight, and after that, if a single block continues not to have any weight on it, it will simply disappear, making it even harder to get across. As they move forward, new blocks will begin to form, and the old behind the last person will, as Coran puts it fondly, ‘Poof out of existence faster than a distressed Gringan on Omochrome 8’.

“What the ever-loving shit,” Pidge breaks the silence that had fallen over them during the explanation first. Shiro doesn’t even bother correcting her for once, sweat collecting on his brow as he follows the movement of the blocks.

“Dude,” Hunk says quietly, eyes about as wide as everyone else’s as they all stare wearily at their newest torture device. “I thought you said no high elements today.”

“Oh, did I?” Coran leans up against the wall, inspecting his nails. “I suppose I meant just no elements you all could _cheat on_ with your jet packs.”

“What the hell are we supposed to do if we fall, then?” Keith speaks up indignantly, stomach dropping.

He hadn’t eaten much earlier after Lance had appeared and interrupted his peaceful thoughts for the day, and he finds that he’s regretting that as his stomach churns unpleasantly. Speaking of the asshole in question, he’s surprisingly moved a little closer to him, mouth gaping open at Coran when he responds.

“Well, I guess you all better not let that happen, huh?” Coran suggests like that is a completely reasonable explanation, and then he’s clapping his hands and saying cheerily, “Alright, as Shiro said earlier, let’s get right to it! Have fun everyone, and try not to fall to your deaths!”

 

* * *

 

It’s about two minutes into the simulation, and it’s already more than obvious they’ve failed.

At the front of the path, posed on a block now with a gap so large separating him from the others that no one could reasonably jump across, Keith sighs. The two closest people to him—about several hundred feet behind—are Lance and Hunk, grasping onto each other as they try to balance on a single block together that’s rocking back and forth. Pidge is hanging off the edge of one rotating up and down several hundred feet above him with a deadened look to her eyes, and Shiro is practically back at the beginning with an equally as large chasm between him, Lance and Hunk, sitting down on his block with his head in his hands.

“I knew we shouldn’t have let Keith lead,” Lance calls out bitterly for everyone to hear, even though this is all his fault. “I told you all we couldn’t trust him to not screw it up, but does anyone ever listen to me? Noooo.”

Keith turns his exasperation into fury, whipping around from calculating between the floor so far below and the giant gap between them all as he tries to figure out how to fix this, and faces Lance instead.

“We wouldn’t even _be_ in this fucking mess if you had just jumped over here with me in the first place!” he yells back, crossing his arms. “We could have finished this easily if you helped me at the front here - as I explained, we’d have been able to work together on this block to fork the path, Hunk and Shiro would be in position behind us, and Pidge able to help from above. It was a solid plan! You were literally _right behind me_ , how was that so hard? I said on the count of three, _jump_! I had it all perfectly timed, but you hesitated, and now we’re screwed!”

Lance blanches, looking away with a ‘hmph’. “Well, maybe _you_ just weren’t speaking clearly enough, because if _I_ recall correctly, you never actually called out the number ‘three’! You should probably stop mumbling so much, it’s starting to seriously hurt the team, _Mullet_.”

Keith can’t believe this. He’d said it plain as day! He’s honestly seconds away from saying fuck it, and somehow attempting to reach Pidge’s block so he can do a flip off it in order to land a flying kick straight into Lance’s dumb face. It would probably be worth it, even as he tumbled towards the ground to his death.

“Bullshit, Lance! I said three a few times because you _didn’t move_! _Everyone_ heard me say three, right!?”

Hunk slowly nods his head while Lance only looks more betrayed by that, Shiro answers with a curt ‘Yes’, but Pidge only yells, “Yeah, no rush or anything guys, take your time arguing. I just _love_ hanging onto this crazy thing indefinitely. It’s a real blast!”

“Ugh,” Keith says, wiping sweat from his brow. “Just give me a second, I think I can fix this.”

He glances above him, below, behind. He might be able to get Pidge on his block with him once hers makes it descent back down, but then that would leave everyone else completely stranded and also down one more block. Sending Hunk or Lance up to her might be a better option, but as it stands, as far as he can remember Shiro can’t magically jump a few hundred feet—and Coran already deemed that using his arm for a boost would be ‘cheating’.

From below, Allura’s ornery voice interrupts so suddenly that Keith almost falls off of his block. He’d been so busy focusing, he hadn’t even noticed she’d come in to observe them.

“Coran, let them down, the simulation’s failed.”

Keith peers down at her, watching as she scowls and taps her foot. Anger surges through his veins, his hands drawing automatically into fists. It’s all Lance’s fault for being stupid, but if she gives them just a few more minutes, surely he can fix this.

“Princess, please, I think I can find a way to—”

“No,” she says curtly, “There are only a few equations that can be followed to correctly and safely finish this exercise, and you all have already boxed yourselves into a losing corner. It’s impossible, there isn’t a way to redeem this one.”

Before Keith can protest again, the blocks begin their descent back to the ground, much like they had when they first picked them up. Once Pidge gets within a safe distance, she hops to the ground and flips Lance off, rubbing at her tired shoulders.

“I’m going to my room,” she announces bitterly, “If anyone needs me, feel free to fuck the fuck right off.”

“Pidge, tone it back a notch,” Shiro warns, shaking his head as she storms out from the training deck.

He and Hunk stand quietly, waiting for instructions as Allura meets with Coran to discuss something with him. Lance is off somewhere to his left, pouting at the ground, and it’s taking everything in Keith at that moment to not move over and shake him for being a reckless idiot.

“Coran, you like...wouldn’t have actually let us fall to our deaths, would you have?” Hunk asks softly while rubbing at his arm, right when Coran turns away from Allura to leave on some designated task she must have given him.

Coran opens his mouth, but Allura cuts him off. “Not the point, Hunk. The point was that all of you should have put any differences you may have had aside, and worked together as a team.” She turns to stare at Keith and Lance, and Keith feels heat rise in his face. “Though all of you should have helped pick up the slack, naturally I am very disappointed in you two in particular.”

“Yeah, and you know, I totally respect that and all, but I do think the whole ‘you might fall to your death’ thing was a little, uh, you know...” Hunk stammers off, flipping out his hand as he searches for the right word. “Harsh, maybe?”

“Not to worry, Allura told me to say that in order to—” Coran begins, twirling at his mustache, but Allura’s words rise and cut over his again. She lifts a hand to stop him.

“Coran, I can handle this. Please go to the observation deck, I’ll meet you there in a tick. Hunk, Shiro, you may leave as well.”

Hunk glances at Shiro, who makes a motion for him to drop it, and the two of them file silently out of the room. Lance slinks after them, making as if to leave too, but Allura snags him mid-stride by his hood. She lifts him completely off the ground as he kicks at the air, and Keith would laugh had it been appropriate, because it instantly reminds him of a disobedient kitten being dragged up by its disapproving mother.

“Hey, what’s the big deal, Princess? Team building is over for today, isn’t it?”

“Excuse me?” She says, staring Lance down. He quits floundering, stilling in her grasp at the fire they both can read in her eyes. Keith thinks it serves him right to be chastised, until Allura includes him as well. “Coran has informed me that the whole thing didn’t work, much like last week, due to you two being obstinate. I am beginning to severely lose my patience.”

Keith clenches his teeth, flexes his fists. He doesn’t like feeling responsible for failing his teammates during the rare chance he’s gotten to lead, during the one time he’s given to really prove he has the skills to stand his ground and be mature. He spent a long time working hard, to be the best and rise to the top of his class as a pilot, to fight to gain the skills to get to where he is today. Everything has always been a battle for him, and he doesn’t plan to give up without a fight.

“I really don’t mean to be rude or interject here, Allura, but can I just say that I gave Lance _very_ clear directions to follow, and he completely ignored my instructions, so I—”

“Enough.” Allura drops Lance, whom totters on his feet at the force, almost falling to the ground. “I don’t care who did what, who started this or who started that. This pointing fingers nonsense is childish, and I’m sick of it. If you two don’t get your act together soon, there will be consequences. This isn’t about you and your silly hangups, this is about the fate of the _entire universe._ ”

Keith watches Lance straighten out his jacket, lingers on the way he pauses with an odd scrunch of his nose, as if he’s just gotten a whiff of something rotten. The deep lines of Lance’s frown and the glassy-ness in his eyes right then even guilts Keith somewhat into not wanting to continue putting too much blame with him. Allura is right, they’re a team. As the leader, maybe there was something he could have done to encourage him in the task rather than lash out. Keith feels his pride deflate and unravel, like a thread coming loose from an already poorly put together sweater.

Allura gets as close as he thinks he’s ever seen her be, so close in both of their space that he flinches. “Fix whatever it is you need to fix _now,_ Paladins. I expect nothing less than for you to work through this completely, and thus easily pass this simulation with flying colors by the end of what you call one of your Earth months.”

She doesn’t even need to tag on the insinuated ‘or else’ as she turns on her heel and stalks out, leaving Keith and Lance to lapse into a strained, uneasy silence until they mumble hurried goodbyes to each other, never meeting the other’s gaze.

All Keith can think as he returns to his room, is that it’s going to be one long-ass month.

 

* * *

 

It’s later that night, and for once Keith was able to prepare beforehand and make it back to his own bed, so by all accounts he _should_ be comfortable, shouldn’t have any issues _whatsoever_ with sleeping.

But the terrible fact of the matter is, as he tosses and turns, tugs off clothes and puts them back on, fluffs and rearranges his pillow, moves futilely from his back to his sides and stomach—he can’t.

This is such bullshit. He did everything right for his circadian rhythm to cooperate tonight. He trained for most of the day with Shiro. He actually ate three meals today. He showered at a reasonable time, cut off all light sources hours ago. Everyone else had been quiet so the hall wasn’t filled with it’s usual small annoyances, like the loud chatter of Hunk and Lance making lame jokes from their rooms or Pidge clacking away at her computer.

Everyone else seems to have no issues, everyone else seems to be settled in happily, dreaming sweet dreams in the soothing swell of unconsciousness. It isn’t fair, he bemoans, groaning and flinging his blankets back off him for probably the millionth time.

His bed is too cold, but it’s also too hot. It isn’t the right, lukewarm temperature of something more like, say, a human body is. It’s too lumpy to be firm enough to give support to his neck, like legs underneath him might be able to, too hard to emulate the soft relief that comes from snuggling into comfortable thighs.

It doesn’t smell right, he thinks with a sigh, pulling a pillow over his head to muffle an exasperated yell. Inhaling the scent of the thing doesn’t help either—it’s his own bland smell mixed with the almost medical, mechanical and unwelcoming ones of the modern appliances of the ship. It isn’t peppermint, it isn’t like suntan lotion, it isn’t doing a goddamn thing to ease his anxious nerves.

There are no hands stroking his hair, and bashfully, when he raises his own curious fingers to try doing it himself, it most surely does not have the same effect.

What in the holy quiznakking hell has Lance done to him? First, he ruins him by letting him sleep on him, then he ruins their teamwork, and now this is the result, the sort of disgusting feelings he has to suffer through? The bastard’s broken him, irrevocably and undeniably, shattered him forever.

It isn’t like Keith hasn’t ever had trouble sleeping before—well, wasn’t that how he got into this mess in the first place? But he most definitely, had never, ever, _ever_ felt the embarrassing longing for the warmth of another person to be there with him in his bed, never had the foreign urge to curl up around them as they played with his hair and pampered him with soothing words he can’t quite recall. Not once had he really yearned for the touch of gentle hands caressing his body, or craved a closeness so unlike him he wonders if maybe he isn’t going a little stir crazy from being cooped up on this ship with a limited amount of people for so long.

There’s so many little epiphanies going on, so many thoughts clashing over the throbbing of his temples.

He’s never _wanted_ these things before, because of the simple fact that he’s never _had_ these things before.

Keith never thought there was anything he was particularly missing out on, always considered contact to be pretty overrated. Whenever he’d overheard people talk about missing touching others or wanting to hug or be close to someone, he’d scoffed, because that seemed more like a weakness than a strength or good thing to desire, to always be so clingy or have to rely on others to satisfy you. To have a part of you that could only be satiated by someone else, was laughable to him.

How can you be completely independent if you need to be? How do you move on if that person you desire to touch so much doesn’t want to touch you back ever again? How do you cope with the itch of your palms, the sudden coldness that settles under your skin when they aren’t around?

What an inconvenience.

It’s nauseating, this new feeling, though admittedly in a way that pleasantly lurches his stomach, and doesn’t actually end in him getting sick.

Now that he’s been given a taste of this—this bit of heaven he didn’t know really existed, he doesn’t know how to feel, or how to deal with this strange neediness that makes him feel slightly out of control. Confusingly, he wants to pull out all his hair and scream some more into his pillow, while also pressing his wide smile into it to suppress his joy.

Maybe it’s just his exhausted brain talking, maybe it’s the uncharacteristic blood lust rising now in his veins, but as Keith peels himself off the dreaded mattress, kicking at the pile of sheets angrily as they get caught in his feet when he stumbles blearily across the floor, he makes one final decision amongst all these terrible new realizations:

He’s going to kill Lance.

 

* * *

 

Right as Lance is finally on the verge of nodding off after hours of stressing over Allura’s threats and all the weird things that have happened between him and Keith over the past day, his door slides open with its usual sharp _ping_ , causing him to nearly bump his head on the ceiling with how fast he jumps up in surprise.

“What the, what the hell?! Holy shit, who’s, who’s there!?”

Lance squints through the darkness, letting his eyes adjust with the dim light of the hallway. His hand trails to his bedside table, groping around to try and find his bayard so at least he can use the lights on it to reveal whoever it is (and maybe be doubly prepared if it’s an intruder on the ship, because he can’t recall why any of the others would be waking him so abruptly right now). He finds he doesn’t have to bother though, because the annoyed sounding voice that cuts through the quiet takes care of that for him.

“Lance, I’m going to kill you.”

“Keith?” Lance rubs his eyes as the dark figure strides in and sits in a huff, hunched over and staring him down disconcertingly at the edge of his bed. Lance yawns, stretches his arms, not particularly disturbed by the threat. “What are you doing here? Dude, do you know how late it is right now? Can’t you like, save killing me for another time? I’m tired.”

Keith crawls closer, and before Lance knows it, his fingers are bunching up in the material of his pajamas and dragging him forward. A small flicker of fear rises in Lance as he comes face-to-face with one of the most intimidating Keith glares he’s ever had the misfortune of being on the receiving end of. He can feel it practically burning holes into his soul as Keith’s bag-lined eyes rove over him, as if he’s guilty of some great atrocity. His breath puffs out hotly over Lance’s cheeks when he speaks.

“No, I really can’t,” he spits, shaking Lance a little, “because I’m ten times more tired than you, and it’s all your fucking fault!”

“Uh…” Lance looks around, wondering if maybe Hunk or Pidge are in on some joke to prank him, because he’s not sure he understands what’s going on. “Are you...alright there, buddy? You don’t look so good, and nothing you’re saying makes sense.”

Keith unexpectedly drops him from his grasp and recoils, sitting back on his knees with his arms hanging limply at his sides. For a while, he doesn’t say anything, only peers at him owlishly, head cocked to the side with an unreadable expression. Sweat begins to collect on the back of Lance’s neck, pulse fluttering wildly as he basks in the rejuvenating afterglow of the comforting touch of another person, even if it wasn’t so gentle.

And it’s not just _any_ person, his body eagerly reminds him even though he doesn’t really want to think about it. It’s a person he’s been wanting to reach out and touch in little ways all day to get a taste again of what he did last night, if only for a moment. A person he’s been quietly lamenting about making a promise to refrain from touching, because surely they’ve made it clear they don’t want him to, and now—

“Move over.”

Of all the words Lance would have guessed Keith would say, that was most definitely not anywhere near in the realm of even his top one hundred guesses. His eyes widen, gaping as he returns Keith’s pensive stare. Keith instantly turns away. His palms fall from his sides and come to grip hard in the sheets as he moves towards him, now posed on his hands and knees.

“W-what? Move what over?”

“Your dumb body, idiot,” Keith sighs, like that somehow makes a whole lot more sense.

Wordlessly, Lance finds his limbs moving as if on autopilot, despite the better judgment of his brain—which is screaming at him to ask for Keith to better elaborate, because what the fuck. Scooching over and leaving a large gap next to him, it’s a conditioned thing, Lance rationalizes, a deeply ingrained response after so many years of siblings and cousins asking to crawl in bed with him because of bad dreams or being too cold, after so many years growing accustomed to sharing beds because they didn’t have enough space in their house.

“I’m sleeping with you tonight,” Keith explains fuck all else in a monotone, gruff voice. He pauses and coughs, the roughness around the bite in his words edging out into insecurity at Lance’s silence. “I mean...it’s okay if I do, right?” He bites his lip before a murky blotch of bangs fall across his eyes like a shadow, obscuring his expression completely. “You’re not...gonna make fun of me, are you?”

Not able to see his reactions, Lance takes note of the way Keith’s fingers curl tighter in the sheets, how his posture becomes more hunched.

His words strain behind the grit of teeth, sounding more annoyed again like he was earlier. “I swear, if you make fun of me Lance, I’ll...I’ll…”

Lance doesn’t really want to know what Keith will plan to do to him, doesn’t really have the heart to crack a joke, doesn’t have the energy to bother denying such a seemingly pure request.

On this big wide, lonely ship, lost in the vastness of space and fighting to carry the heavy burden of saving the entire universe, he more than understands the instinctual need to be comforted, to have a special, secret place to retreat to that’s safe and warm.

So Lance simply nods, but he still gets the feeling somehow that it’s the stupidest thing he’s done all day. “Yeah...uh, s-sure, buddy, I-I get it. Don’t worry about it, it’s...that’s fine, I guess. Go for it.”

Oh, god. So dumb. Honestly the dumbest words he could have chosen in the entire world. ‘ _Go for it_ ’? What is this, another team building exercise?

Keith stays with his head mostly downcast, and Lance wishes he could peer beyond that thick curtain of hair without making things weirder than they already are. Pretty, silky hair Lance would love to curl between his fingers right then, hair he’d love to brush back in order to see Keith’s face more clearly. He wonders what he might find lurking there—the curve of a smile, the quirk of a frown?—if he actually had the courage to do so.

Instead, he gulps, body stiffening a little as a hot flush creeps up his spine and spreads all the way to the tips of his toes and ears. Breath hitching slightly, he makes a few jumbled, incomprehensible attempts at forming more words in response to Keith to segue into what will no doubt be an awkward few more hours. His chest feels weighted with pressure, his heart a staccato rhythm he prays Keith cannot hear.

It _would_ be totally fine, had he really been looking at Keith in the same light as a brother or cousin in that moment, of course.

As it stands, however, watching Keith gingerly push his way underneath his blankets and slide into the vacant spot by his side, stirs something in him that much like the night before, does not feel so innocent.

No, he thinks when he realizes the gravity of what he’s just done, notices with growing embarrassment that he’s only wearing boxers as pajama bottoms, which he curses himself internally for, because how the fuck had he forgotten that little detail?

The steadily growing warmth from Keith’s own bare legs just barely brushing against his as he sidles up to him and flops down—burying himself in the blankets and looking much like a satisfied cat wrapped in a warm burrito—is like the current of the ocean, dragging him into the gayest riptide from which there is no returning.

Not so innocent at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe Keith just savagely obliterated Lance's "heterosexuality" like that. Cold fucking blooded.


	3. The Taste of Lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the sharp tang of the dirt after it rains, the taste lightning leaves behind in the atmosphere when it strikes, the sting of sand whipping your face, the peculiar crispness in the autumn air and the crunching of deadened leaves under your feet all those times you said fuck it and took off to explore the harsh, but beautiful landscapes of the world on your own.

“Keith,” Lance’s tired, raspy voice rises above the sounds of shuffling, and honestly Keith can’t blame him for sounding more than a little peeved. “If you don’t go the fuck to sleep soon, I’m going to kick your ass out.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just—”

Keith struggles to explain, but he really can’t without sounding like a complete and utter fool. He can’t articulate how although he’d planned to curl up next to Lance—ideally with his arms wrapped around him securely from behind and stroking his hair until he fell into a deep slumber like the night before—once he’d actually gotten close enough, he had chickened out and couldn’t bring himself to make a move, let alone ask for something so obviously embarrassing.

So instead, he’d tried to stay as far away as possible, couldn’t stop shifting and rearranging the covers much like he had in his own bed.

“...I can’t get comfortable, your bed sucks,” he decides on lamely, because that is about a thousand times easier to say.

Lance sucks in a tapered, large breath next to him. He’s on his back, Keith can tell from the light of the stars emitting a soft glow into the room, staring at the ceiling probably close to tears, if the exasperation in his voice is any indication. There’s practically a chasm of chastity between them, Keith having monopolized the whole left side of the bed up to the corner and discreetly stuffing pillows intermittently between them, because he isn’t really sure what else to do anymore to make the fact that he crawled into bed with Lance on a whim some level of okay.

“Keith,” Lance says placidly, with an impressive amount of patience, “What was even the point of this? Did you seriously come in here just to keep me from sleeping too?” He gasps as if he’s uncovered the truth behind some great conspiracy, and flops over to face him. “You did, didn’t you, you jerk? This is all part of some sick revenge plan you have because of me messing up the simulation earlier, isn’t it?!”

Keith grins back at him, knees drawn up tight on his side and fiddling with the blanket, flashing teeth he hopes Lance can see clearly. “Ah-ha, I knew it, so you _do_ admit you messed it up!”

“Fuck,” Lance groans, falling dramatically onto his back again so hard the whole bed shakes. “I can’t believe I fell for that. Your plan was to get me to tell the truth all along?! Ugh. What a cheap shot.”

“Uh-huh.” Keith smirks, because yes, that’s perfect. He can keep the terrifying truth of the real reason a secret, and exhausted Lance will be none the wiser. “That’s exactly it. So now I’ve won since you’ve obviously admitted defeat, which basically means you’ll have to announce to everyone that I _am_ actually a good leader.”

Lance flips once more, putting him at a place Keith deems is much too far over and rudely trespassing into his off-limits pillow-wall territory line. If Lance had really been an enemy toeing over the battle line, Keith surely would have blown him to metaphorical bits by now. Keith recoils and inches back as far as he can go, but he’s already hitting the wall. Lance looms so close their noses are touching, apparently lacking the concept of what it means to give people room to breathe.

“Oh yeah? And how exactly are we going to announce this victory to the rest of the team, shitty samurai?” Lance’s hot breath wafts over his face, laughing as he pauses to let that particular jab of the knife sink in. “Just walk into breakfast tomorrow and say, ‘Hey, guys, funny story, but you’ll never guess what I found out after I _crawled into bed with Lance last night_ ’? I’m sure that’ll go over _real_ well.”

Keith stiffens, furrowing his brows. Why oh why did he think this was a good plan again? He really can’t recall.

“Y-you said you wouldn’t make fun of me, you ass—”

Lance tuts, each noise coming with more puffs of warm air until Keith’s nose wrinkles, still unused to such close proximity.

“Maybe, and maybe I’m not really fully making fun of you, but honestly it doesn’t sound so good anymore when you say it out loud, does it, huh?”

“I—” Keith starts, stops. Lance won’t quit grinning, and he’s so tired he can’t even garner a decent response anymore. He supposes when Lance is sleep deprived he makes the occasional valid point. “You—I’m—”

“ _Yeah_?” Lance prompts, and Keith wants nothing more than to smack off his shit-eating grin straight into the cold depths of space.

“Well, at least my breath doesn’t _stink_ ,” Keith snaps childishly as a last resort under his breath, kicking to where he guesses Lance’s shin is.

It’s ultimately better than that, as his foot connects harshly with the bony cap of his knee. Lance yelps, finally pulling himself away from Keith’s fragile bubble to rub the sting out of his leg.

“Seriously, you know we still have a little thing called _toothpaste_ on the ship, Lance,” Keith adds with a scoff, rolling up further into himself, body stiff, tense, and on high alert.

“That’s _it_.”

Without any warning at all, Lance yanks the blankets off the bed and flings them across the room. He rises to a sitting position, looming angrily over Keith, his hair a mess of tangles arranged similarly to the shape of a mohawk. Pointing to the door, he snarls, “Get out!”

Keith mimics Lance’s body language as he sits up as well, crossing his arms and getting up in his space this time. He honestly doesn’t even care what he’s saying anymore, because really, what does he even have left to lose? His dignity is already long gone.

“Why don’t you _make me_ , dick?”

“Oh, I fucking will, dude. I fucking will, don’t test me!”

Keith is sizing him up, staring him down, wondering how he’s going to make good on his threat, when Lance decides to take the unexpected route of simply banging his forehead against his hard enough that he smacks the wall behind him with a loud _thump_. Keith curses, clutching his head from the pain of being hit by someone so utterly _thick skulled._ While Lance is too distracted from roaring with laughter, Keith draws his knee back as far as he can in order to send his foot careening straight into Lance’s gut.

“Oof! Ouch, fuck!”

As Lance tumbles backwards off the bed, it’s his turn to laugh, not able to stop replaying the sight of Lance’s distraught face at the exact moment when he’d realized in horror that he was going to lose his battle with gravity and fall to the floor. He wonders if the ship might have a surveillance system somewhere, so that he could physically replay it over and over to properly pay homage to that glorious moment forever. When Lance manages to pull himself back up slowly with the help of the edge of the bed, groaning and hair somehow even messier than before with his pajama top heavily askew, Keith doesn’t even bother biting back his smile.

“Alright, this is your last warning, Keith. Get your smarmy ass out of my bed already! You’ve probably permanently contaminated it at this point with your mullet alone!”

“ _No_. I think I’m gonna stay here indefinitely now, since you want me to leave so bad. I mean, and especially since I’ve _already_ contaminated it, what’s a few more hours of exposure?”

Keith flops onto his back, sighing as he hits the side Lance had been laying on. He puts his arms behind his head as he lounges, tries not to noticeably inhale too much when the strong, intoxicating scent of Lance’s shampoo wafts up along with it. He pulls his knees up, crosses one leg over the other and bounces it. Watching Lance smugly with one eye cracked open, he rubs his hair further into and all over the pillow.

Lance’s eyes widen, and Keith relishes in the flames that seem to rise in his irises.

“Do that again,” Lance warns through the sharp grit of teeth, “and I’m going to rip your ugly mullet straight off your stupid scalp.”

So Keith does it again, yawning casually as he thoroughly rubs his hair like a cat nuzzling against something they are bent on marking as their own.

Lance’s words don’t particularly scare him, and it’s not really a daunting threat coming from the guy who’s never been very creative at comebacks. What does catch him off guard, however, is the way Lance lunges forward so fast Keith barely has time to blink. Before he knows it, his fingers _are_ actually wrapping up tightly in his hair. Keith closes his eyes in preparation for the pain that will probably follow as Lance seems to be fairly serious about carrying out his threat—or at the very least, planning to drag him kicking and screaming by his hair.

But neither of those things happens.

“Um.”

Keith’s eyes flutter open in confusion as those nails don’t work at pulling anything, but rather, begin scratching gently at his scalp. He flushes when he automatically lets a small satisfied sigh escape his lips, staring numbly back up at Lance afterwards, who freezes as though suddenly aware of his odd reaction. He’s straddling him too, legs spread wide over his waist in just his boxers and that tank top with its sleeves falling off his shoulders, and Keith tries not to focus too much on how that’s for some reason making everything about ten times more awkward.

“What...are you doing?” Keith laughs nervously, torn between his body’s sudden desire to push Lance away while also pull him in closer for something gross, like a hug maybe. “This is a, um, funny way of going about tearing out my hair...”

“Well, I, uh...”

Lance narrows his eyes, though he doesn’t remove his hand. It’s taking everything in Keith at that moment to not nudge against it to get him to continue his ministrations, because fuck all that is sacred anymore, he hates how _good_ that had felt.

“I _was_ planning to like, throw you out of the bed by your mullet because you’re being a little bitch, but uh,” Lance rambles, running a hand at the back of his neck, fingers of his other continuing to be curled into and now tentatively fingering the strands of Keith’s hair, eyeing them as he does it as if they’re the leading cause of all his problems. “I dunno, I’m tired, and then I realized you might actually maul me to death if I were to seriously pull it, since you’re so protective of this damn terrible hairstyle.”

“Right, okay, that makes...sense, I guess,” Keith draws in a breath slowly, voice cracking a little as he continues, “So now..?”

“So, here we are now.”

Lance tilts his head as he says ‘now’ and shrugs, as if gesturing will help elaborate on any of this mess.

“That’s it, that’s the end of my explanation,” he settles on unhelpfully, bottom lip caught between his teeth and avoiding making eye contact. His cheeks seem a lot darker than normal against the already dim shadows of the room. “This is where my current bad decisions have led us, buddy, okay? It’s probably best we don’t look into this anymore than we need to. Agreed?”

“Uh...y-yeah...probably…”

A pregnant pause falls over the room. Heavy tension sits around them, seems to also be planted directly in the pit of Keith’s gut and lurching up into his throat. Lance fills it with his apparent nervous habit to start twirling hair he’s spent most of the night (and not to mention all of the time he’s known Keith) making fun of, and focusing on playing with it instead.

The only thing that changes is that Lance hurriedly scrambles away from practically sitting in his lap, which Keith is thankful for. What he isn’t as thankful for, is when Lance finally realizes he should probably stop petting his hair too, and Keith most definitely hates himself even more when his arm shoots up and grabs Lance’s retreating wrist before he gets the chance to do so.

“Not a goddamn word,” Keith says shortly, drawing those skilled fingers back towards his hair, because fuck this and fuck Lance. Lance lurches forward with the force that he leads him, jerking in his grasp in so much surprise that the bed shakes.

“Whoah, what are you—”

“Not. A. Goddamn. Word. Lance.”

Keith nudges into his palm, hoping he gets the message without making him ask for such an awful thing. He curls onto his side to face away from Lance to make this less shameful—if that’s even a thing that’s possible at this point.

Honestly, he’s expecting more of a protest, maybe some obnoxious questions or bad jokes, at the very least. Keith mulls over his choice to be so standoffish, wondering if maybe that wasn’t the best way to go about it when he’d already been the world’s worst bed guest. It might have made it not as awkward had he invited more conversation on the matter, then again, it might not have, but—

There’s nothing to match the silence that follows but an exasperated huff, a sort of disgruntled humming sound and possibly a slight hitch in Lance’s breath. Apparently, Keith doesn’t have to explain himself, because fingers drag back through his hair rhythmically, alternating between fluffing it, smoothing it down, brushing it back from his neck.

Lance shifts on the mattress behind him—closer, it seems, as his body heat becomes more tangible, radiating near Keith’s back in a way that has him further trying to hide the flush of his cheeks into the pillow.

If the touches weren’t already the main source of the curious warmth washing over him now, surely the smells alone would be. Keith had never really taken any time to ever think about the way another person might smell, how it might differ from his own, or how it might affect someone in a way that ultimately doesn't seem rational.

How it strangely might make a person want to inhale more of it, rather than find it an offensive odor, is a concept he can’t completely wrap his head around. He can’t put his finger on what emotion rises from these new scents coming from Lance that he’d never cared to stop and catalogue before, what words to associate with it, as they keep shifting from neutral to positive to negative. Bizarre? Overwhelming? Comforting? Gross? Warm? Disgusting? Gentle? Unsettling? Nice?

Nothing sounds quite right.

Lance’s particular scent doesn’t stand out as anything too fragrant or significant, not much other than that of faded minty shampoos mixed with skin and sweat and what most people probably smell like after bathing and then encasing themselves in the heat of a bed.

But there is one final consensus on the matter, Keith thinks while inhaling deeply from the pillowcase again.

Despite the lack of anything unique about it at all—it smells distinctly _amazing_. Keith makes all the positive comparisons he can think of from experiences that he supposes are similar to what making actual contact with another person like this really feels like.

Lance smells like the lingering taste of hot chocolate and soup after gulping the soothing burn of it down in the frigid chill of winter, within the drafty shack of a home so poorly put together it doesn’t have any kind of insulation. It smells like that first step inside a warm, still house after spending hours rolling around in the damp snow when you were a kid because no one was ever there to set limits for you to go inside _before_ your body started getting numb—or perhaps after trekking through the desert for hours searching for a mysterious feeling calling you to explore nearby caves on a whim in the middle of nowhere.

It’s the sharp tang of the dirt after it rains, the taste lightning leaves behind in the atmosphere when it strikes, the sting of sand whipping your face, the peculiar crispness in the autumn air and the crunching of deadened leaves under your feet all those times you said fuck it and took off to explore the harsh, but beautiful landscapes of the world on your own.

It sounds like the comforting creak of a rocking chair on the porch in the wind before a terrible storm somehow, or sticking your toes in mud because some asshole at the orphanage stole your shoes but you didn’t really care because you felt free and wanted to make a statement. It smells like biting into delicious food that isn’t stale for the first time in months. It’s the praise of someone telling you ‘good job’ when you get perfect marks in the flight simulation, the thrill of finally knocking that bully down and flexing out bloodied knuckles in triumph, the soreness of muscles after a long day of training.

It doesn’t make much sense—in fact this is probably the most absurd thing ever and mostly sleep deprivation talking, but Keith supposes nothing really makes sense out here anymore anyway, relatively speaking. His body relaxes regardless from these comparisons and old memories, from Lance’s touch, stress easing out of every one of his tensed muscles as his eyelids grow steadily heavier.

Fingernails make contact with his scalp again, pulling over it with as much care as they did the night before, and Keith barely manages to stifle the pleased noise that threatens to burble up from his throat. He can’t tell exactly how Lance is laying right then—if he’s curled behind him in a similar position on his side, or if he might be extended somewhat up on one elbow and possibly watching him, if he’s mostly on his stomach, or even if he’s facing away and has his arm in an awkward extension as he fights with his own embarrassment over the situation.

Come to think of it, he doesn’t know if that’s the sort of thing Lance would even be embarrassed about or not considering he never seems to have an ounce of shame in him about _anything_ , but it comforts Keith to think they’re at least in the same boat here.

By the dip of the mattress, the more evened out drawl of his breathing, all Keith knows is that he seems to have settled down and is no longer sitting.

So Keith lets go of his belligerence, lets himself be cradled by and wrapped around in it all.

 _Lance’s_ smells.

 _Lance’s_ pillows.

 _Lance’s_ bed.

 _Lance’s_ shee—

Oh, right.

With his eyes completely closed, Keith slings a lazy hand over the side of the bed, moving enough to the edge and groping around until he grasps the corner of one thin sheet Lance tossed off earlier. The fingers in his hair twitch forward, then fall back as he moves just out of their reach. Feeling satiated, safe, and properly sleepy, Keith decides that he has enough courage to crack open an eye in order to drape the sheet over wherever Lance might be, since that’s the least he could probably do.

What Keith finds there, freezing in his motion to tug the sheet over them, is that all his guesses about how Lance had been lying were completely off.

“...Oh,” he says softly.

Lance is sprawled on his back with his legs spread wide, left arm still extended towards where Keith had been lying, fingers continuing to make fluttering motions as if playing with invisible tufts of hair. Apparently in the clutches of a deep slumber, his mouth is partially open, pink lips parted just enough to let a barely distinguishable whistle of breath escape. One of his sleeves remains off his shoulder, hanging loosely around his arm, and his shirt is hiked up towards his chest.

It’s the most peaceful and serene sight Keith is sure he’s seen in all the time they’ve been in space.

He stares, disbelieving that this is the same boy who makes lame puns and gloats about all the alien girls he’s going to win over one day with them. Keith blinks once, twice just to make sure—but nope, the image is still there. He rubs his eyes until pricks of color dot his vision.

For a moment, Keith even forgets why the sheet is in his hand, choosing instead to watch the slow rise and fall of Lance’s tanned, exposed stomach bathed in starlight. He doesn’t know or understand why or how, but it’s mesmerizing; hypnotizing, even.

Eventually he feels the weight of the material grasped in his hand again, comes back to some semblance of sanity, and carefully arranges the blanket over Lance, sighing in relief when it hides that little peek of skin.

He lets himself curl up facing Lance this time—not close enough to be making any other contact besides aligning his head back beneath Lance’s hand, which automatically resumes its movements as if he’d never been gone.

It’s quiet other than the gradual lengthening in Lance’s intakes of breath as he slips deeper into unconsciousness, the ship only groaning and creaking occasionally as it seamlessly glides through some unfamiliar galaxy. Usually these noises are what Keith has been training himself to grow accustomed to in order to fall asleep on more restless nights, though he quickly realizes that it isn’t _that_ this time around, but the sound of Lance’s breathing which becomes his focus.

Even as Lance starts snoring softly, Keith finally feels the veil of sleep overtake him, pulling him across that dangerous line where good and bad decisions don’t really matter anymore. Drawing out that pleased sigh that’s been sitting on the edge of his lips, he shifts closer, enough so that his toes are very lightly brushing against one of Lance’s soft, bare legs. That’s all he can manage for now, but it’s fine, because the taste of lightning is fresh on his tongue.

The last image Keith sees before his eyes flutter shut is purely Lance, snoring with his mouth open like an idiot and drooling a little, but with his lips quirked up in a small, goofy smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short sweet chapter, but i wanted to have a little part for just the boys to start getting situated into....whatever this is going to evolve into before things get....crazy.... ;)


	4. Space Says Hello

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nice, real nice. A perfect ‘ten’ score of a great comeback there. And in case you were wondering, that’s a ten out of a 10,000 point scale, Lance.”

When Lance wakes up, he swears he can hear the crash of waves, can smell the brine in the air.

There’s a familiar impression of arms around his waist, a warm body he’s sure has to belong to one of his brothers. He pushes whoever it is away carefully in the rare case that it’s Marco, since he’s a kicker when he wakes, but they only cling harder to him like an overlarge leech.

He frowns, relenting to the iron grip, not wanting to open his eyes to deal with it. It _could_ be the holidays. His eldest brother, Luis, could be visiting with his two young kids. The clinginess indicates maybe this is Desi, but their grasp on him is too strong, the arms too long to belong to his tiny body. Did Dali have a nightmare, or is someone playing a joke on him and switching up who’s assigned to what bed in the middle of the night again?

Fucking Veronica, there’s a reason for the order. She knows damn well Marco accidentally gave him a black eye that one morning. 

Or...maybe he just forgot one of his cousins was staying over?

“ _Quítate...hazte a un lado_ ,” he murmurs, groaning, trying to turn over to curl onto his side away from the intensity of the body heat, “ _Coño,_ _es demasiado caliente para este_ …” 

The person stirs, but doesn’t respond at first, which is weird. At this point, his words would have been met with a chorus of voices cursing for him to be quiet and settle the fuck down, or a pillow getting chucked at his head. The lack of any sort of animosity in response starts clearing the fog from his mind, stirring him awake even though he feels like he could sleep soundly for the next three years straight.

Warm lips press into his neck as the body follows him when he turns, snuggling much closer than he recall any of his siblings being before, and it’s especially different when the trickle of breath against his ear sends shivers down his spine, when a knee pushes between his legs and a foot hooks around his own.

“Mmm,” whoever it is finally sighs, hot breaths so close Lance can feel the moisture of it cling to his skin like a pleasant fog. The voice turns rougher, raspier. “Shut up. Too early.”

The salt in the air begins to fade at the sound of the low, gruff voice that doesn’t match anyone he’s related to, that most definitely isn’t speaking in Spanish. There is no whistle of the comforting ocean wind blowing gently through a narrow, open window, no sounds of birds chirping or the distant clatter of music. Lance pokes his head from the covers, and despite the stifling warmth contained underneath the blankets, the air is temperate, if a little on the chilly side.

It’s unusual. The insulation in their house is intense enough alone, but combined with the consistently humid air, most days he wakes feeling suspicious that his family members are trying to cook him alive.

Lance’s eyes begin to flutter open. There are no windows, he thinks, because that would be bad or something. The room he’s in is still and stuffy, his bed humming with vibrations underneath him like a slow moving plane. The body draped behind him is lean but firm, smelling like strawberries and musk. They’re nuzzling his neck like a cat and pushing the barest imprint of a smile into it.

This is definitely all wrong. No one in his family smells this fucking good, ever.

Lance stares at the stark wall in front of him, which is sterile looking—modern, fancy, not anything resembling the adobe ones he used to count the cracks in while he lazed around in bed growing up. Then there’s the biggest, most obvious issue here—despite the literal monkey on his back, there’s _way_ too much room. None of their beds are this big.

He jolts up, disturbing who he now knows is there.

“Oh, holy quiznak!”

A half-dressed boy with wild, mullet like black hair wearing a weak sort of glare comes into view, curled up _in his bed_ , rubbing his eyes and looking confused from beneath the covers.

“I said, _shut up_ , ugh.” While Lance panics, the boy’s eyes flutter more as if he’s trying to get something out of them than rouse himself, and then he’s promptly dragging the blanket over his head to block out the sound of Lance’s unintelligible stammering. “So annoying, so early.”

“Keith, you’re...you’re still in my fucking bed. G-get out.”

Keith kicks his shin, the bastard. What is with this kid and his bony ass heels? Grumbling, he balls himself even tighter in his blanket cocoon. “No shit, Sherlock. Go the fuck back to sleep.”

“But you’re here, laying with me, in _my_ bed.” Lance pokes the bigger lump that he assumes is one of his shoulders, scooching away as Keith’s arms stretch out to snake around his waist again. Apparently, he’s going to start off his day with Keith giving him a gay-induced heart-attack. “You don’t...you don’t see anything weird about that at all, buddy?”

Keith’s hand, which had only seconds before been planning to do something admittedly very cute and innocent, is now swatting at him, palm open and set instantly into smacking mode. Lance dodges it at the last second, much more alert now that he knows Keith is apparently combative as soon as he wakes up.

“Dude, what is your fucking damage. Let a guy sleep in peace, fuck.”

“Yeah, you know, and I totally would, under any normal circumstances.” Lance prods a smaller lump near the shoulder-looking one, hoping it’s Keith’s head. “But I think you’re a bit out of it right now.”

“God, would you just fucking be quie—” Keith flings the covers off, brows furrowed deeply, looking like he’s about to go in for the kill, when he freezes mid-rage. His nose wrinkles, his cheeks flush.

“L-Lance?”

Whatever the hell is going on, Lance still can’t help but grin upon seeing the ratty nest of his tangled mullet, which is hanging like a wild mane in various directions all around his face when he jerks up into a sitting position.

“Mornin’, starshine.” Keith scrambles to the farthest edge of the bed as he possibly can, looking about seventy different shades of startled. “[Space says hello](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=whmzEXywq40).”

“Fuck, what the fuck.”

Keith continues towards the edge, and before Lance can warn him about the danger of that, he’s already tumbling over the side.

Lance laughs, crawling over to watch him struggle to untangle his limbs from the sheets on the floor. Serves him right for disturbing him last night and demanding to share his bed like some spoiled little kid.

“W-what, why, h-how—”

“Are you serious? You don’t remember barging in here last night and demanding to infiltrate my sleeping space?”

Lance flops onto his stomach, stretching his arms out in front of him to ease the kinks from his cramped muscles, then plants his palms underneath his chin as he soaks in the sight of Keith stumbling up like a drunkard and shaking his foot wildly to rid himself of the bonds of the blanket.

“Why the hell would I ever do that?” Keith hisses, and Lance scowls. Really, the nerve of this guy.

“I dunno man, you tell me! You’re the one who ended up here!”

Lance rolls over onto his back, stretching his neck over the edge of the bed to stare up at Keith upside-down. Thinking back to only moments before of sleepy, subdued Keith, he pretends his deep frown is actually a smile, which he’d much rather get a glimpse of again.

He must be more sleep deprived than he thought.

“Well, I…” Keith clears his throat, shaking off the last of the blanket. “...I didn’t mean to, I guess.”

“Whatever you say, dude. Whatever you say,” Lance sighs, lifting his legs over his head and flipping into a backwards roll right off the bed, feet planting seamlessly on the ground with all the practiced ease of a gymnast.

He wonders if Keith is impressed, he’s been working on perfecting that for a while now. When he straightens himself completely, he’s more than a little disappointed to see Keith turned away from him, unsure if he even saw his amazing acrobatic trick.

Well, in any case, that seems to be the end of that, as anticlimactic as it all is. Heart sinking slightly in his chest, Lance isn’t sure what else he was hoping for, but it probably wasn’t watching Keith’s retreating back as he stalks off stiffly to his door after denying this ever happened for any reason other than him being delirious.

That is, until Keith pauses before he reaches the censor of the door.

“You...let me stay.” Keith shifts his gaze to the floor and shuffles his feet. He lays that out for both of them to pause and re-evaluate. “Why?”

Lance makes a show of inspecting his nails, not wanting to re-evaluate why he did what he did anymore. He places a hand on his hip. “Well, I am widely known for taking in charity cases.”

Snorting, Keith turns around and raises an eyebrow at that. “Really now? What kind of charity work have you taken on in the past that involved specifically _sharing your bed_? I don’t think this quite falls under the category you can mark off on your taxes, you know.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know, I’m like, a fantastic bro, okay?” Lance huffs as he jabs a thumb towards himself, because how dare Keith question his reasonings behind the grand workings of his amazing inner mind. “I don’t mean to brag, but I was pretty much the one everyone went to in my family when they had nightmares, because I was the best at snuggling them all away.”

Keith is staring at him oddly like he doesn’t understand English all of a sudden, and Lance wonders if maybe he said something wrong. Sure, they hadn’t exactly had a lot of conversations about their home lives together—er, or more like any at all that he can recall, considering his conversations with Keith often only ended in bickering—but Lance wasn’t exactly quiet about details when it came to his family around the team. Keith has to at least know that he has such a big ass family, he can’t be that oblivious to his own surroundings.

...Can he?

“So I...look man, if you had a nightmare, it’s not a big deal, you know,” Lance continues when Keith remains silent, “One of my older brothers still had them until he was our age now basically and would come to me even though I’m a good deal younger than him. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“But I didn’t—” Keith begins to get more indignant, but trails off surprisingly quick. His defensive stance deflates, he for some reason decides to be agreeable and admit he needed Lance to snuggle away his bad dreams, which Lance feels a tinge of pride at for uncovering. “Yeah...right. A nightmare. That must have been it. Well. Thanks, then, I guess.”

Promptly, he turns back on his heel so fast Lance almost just lets him go. He’s shaking his head of what he’s still not sure has all been some incredibly vivid fever dream, before he realizes the gravity of what Keith’s about to do.

“Whoah, whoah, whoah, wait just a hot minute!”

Lance lunges forward to grab Keith by the shoulder, gulping a little when he’s reminded of how soft his bare skin is. He removes his palm as soon as he can when Keith turns to him, head cocked, arms crossed, apparently pissy and full of rage as soon as he’s fully awake.

“You can’t just go storming out of my room at this hour—especially dressed like _that_ —like it’s no big deal, okay? Let’s be tactful about this. We don’t want anyone asking any _weird_ questions, right?”

Lance’s face grows hot as he thinks about exactly how suggestive that would look, but Keith doesn’t seem particularly bothered by the insinuation at all. Either he has an incredible stone face, or he’s too groggy to register what Lance means by that.

“Ah, good point,” Keith agrees, “I definitely don’t want anyone knowing I’m sleeping with someone like you.”

Right before Lance goes out to make sure the coast is clear first, he cringes. It is too early in the whatever-time-it-is for him to feel this exasperated.

“Keith, buddy, at least do me one favor here— _please_ , for the love of all that is still good in this universe, stop saying that.”

 

* * *

 

Coran flicks his gaze over them steadily as he walks slowly back and forth down the line of paladins, whom he’s arranged by his usual height ranking—Pidge at one end, Shiro at the other, Keith, Lance, and Hunk squished between them. The sweat can be visibly seen collecting on each of their respective brows, and Keith feels himself growing ever the more irritated as he waits for Coran to make up his mind already, having felt like they’ve been standing there for hours now.

When Coran finally pauses in front of Shiro, everyone seems to sigh in relief. Shiro stares back at him, resolute, and begins to step forward when—

“Lance!” Coran calls, whipping his head towards him still in front of Shiro, and Lance instantly perks up from doing some weird snapping motion against the surface of his bayard. “I’ve decided Lance is leading today.”

Keith and Pidge groan loudly, Pidge adding a terse, ‘ _are you fucking kidding me?_ ’ as Lance’s smile—which had brightened up his entire demeanor when Coran chose him—crashes like the shards of a broken glass.

Hunk opens his mouth to say something, frown deeply ingrained when he sees Lance’s crestfallen face. He’s most likely going to come to Lance’s aid like he always does, when Lance asserts himself first, immediately over exacerbating his skills like he’s ought to do.

“Aw, c’mon guys, I can totally lead you all, no problem!” He reassures them, if a little bitterly. And, of course, he just _has_ to add the side snark of, “I’m not Keith, at least! You can trust me to do this right.”

Keith turns on him, blood flowing hot and rushing fast through his veins. Lance literally admitted to messing that up! So much for late night confessions. You think you can cuddle a guy and things will be better, but then he turns on you like it was nothing.

Typical.

" _You’re_ the one who screwed that up last time, how many times do we have to go over this—”

“Guys, easy. Coran’s made his choice, so we should respect that,” Shiro pipes up, even though he does look the smallest bit apprehensive. Keith can read him well enough to know that, even if the rest of the team can’t spot the small nuance of it through the impressive act he always puts up to be reassuring and supportive. If even Shiro is doubting this, what happens next will undoubtedly be a train wreck of epic proportions.

Still, he gives Lance the benefit of the doubt. “I’m sure Lance will be a great leader, won’t you, Lance?”

Lance’s proud grin returns in full force, and he salutes Shiro. Keith can barely contain the roll of his eyes. “Yessiree, you can count on me!”

There’s a split second where he flashes that smug grin towards Keith, but Keith doesn’t get the time to get angrier about it, because he’s bounding away, swaggering with a bounce to his step as he ushers them all to the flickering cubes-of-death simulation, which are hovering in the air waiting for them like the most foreboding set of shapes in existence.

 

* * *

 

Keith figures it’s no coincidence that Lance chose for him to be at the farthest point away as possible, in the back of their line on the most nauseatingly bouncing block, but he can’t force the words up to complain since he’s not too keen on possibly losing his lunch.

Lance is barking some order or other to Pidge and Shiro, then directing Hunk, and Keith can just make out what he says to him above the sloshing of undigested food goo swirling uneasily about in his stomach.

Something, something, ‘ _jump when I say so, or else, mullet_ ’—yeah, yeah, real professional and leader-like.

So he does when he hears the call Lance set in place to signal to them, which is, obnoxiously enough, some high-pitched alarm sounding screech like that of a dying bird which tears inhumanly from his lips just then, as if he’s practiced it over a hundred times to simply perfect the fair art of being irritating.

Keith can’t believe just hours ago he snuggled up to this infuriating bastard. Never again, he thinks, as his legs spring into action to jump seamlessly to the next block, watching with baited breath as the rest of the team barely makes it to their respective places. He doesn’t really want to admit it, but Lance is doing an admittedly okay job in guiding them through so far.

If only he weren’t being so annoying about it.

Lance stares ahead, evaluating the sway of his new block, which blipped into existence anxiety-provokingly as he’d been in the air. A gamble for sure, definitely not planned, Keith can tell. He’s a bit too far away for Keith to get a good look at his expression, but he recognizes that nervous warbling in his throat all too well.

“Great job, everyone, perfect timing, keep up the good work,” Lance praises them, then sighs. “...And Keith was okay, I suppose.”

“Fuck you, Lance,” Keith spits, trying to steady his lurching stomach on the much firmer and thankfully less shaky block.

“Rude,” Lance turns to glare at him as best as he can across the treacherous gap over the heads of the others, “I’ll have you know, that’s no way to talk to your _commanding officer—_ ”

“You’re _not_ acting like a commanding officer, you’re just being an _asshole_.”

Completely forgetting the task at hand, Lance pulls his full attention to Keith, planting both hands firmly on his hips. “Hey, buddy, in case you somehow forgot, Coran put _me_ in charge. So as your _commanding officer_ , my first serious order is that I command you to stop being a dick!”

“I’ll stop being a dick when you stop saying stupid shit!” Keith shoots back, so completely over this exercise and over everything about Lance, “Which honestly will probably be _never_ , so I guess I’ll just keep being one!”

“Oh my god, just get a room later and move the fuck on!” Pidge howls at them, and Keith feels slightly sympathetic to see the block she’s on is shifting rapidly back and forth. “I swear, I’m going to jump if you two don’t stop.”

Lance whips around, gasping and pointing a finger in her direction. “You wouldn’t...you wouldn’t dare, midget!”

“You want to try me?” Pidge threatens lowly, dipping one foot towards the edge of her block and flashing Lance a challenging glare.

“See, you’re driving your own teammates to want to commit technical suicide! That’s how bad of a leader you are!” Keith furiously shouts to Lance without thinking much of it, even if through the thick of the red of his temper he can see the sting his words have left clearly imprinted on the lines of Lance’s hurt face.

“Yeah, w-well, your dumb mullet makes me want to commit ‘technical’ suicide, it’s so awful!”

“Nice, real nice. A perfect ‘ten’ score of a great comeback there. And in case you were wondering, that’s a ten out of a 10,000 point scale, Lance.”

“That’s _it_ , I’m gonna do it!” Pidge bellows over them, sitting down and throwing her legs over the side of her block, “Here I fucking go, and after my death, you all are getting none of my shit, by the way! _None of it,_ because I’m gonna take it with me to my grave!”

“Pidge, Lance, Keith, calm...calm down, let’s all take a deep breath and try to think about this rationally now,” Shiro tries to interject, looking back and forth between all of them from his position dead-center in the midst of all the fuckery. Keith wants to tell him it’s pointless, Lance is a veritable shitshow in every sense of the word, and if he’d only learn to keep his mouth shut, then none of this would ever happen in the first place.

The three continue arguing regardless, until Keith can barely understand who’s yelling what at him anymore, until he’s been called some various form of uncreative mullet insult about ten times, until Pidge is dangling off her block by her fingers taunting to ruin Lance’s only chance at leadership with her threats to jump to her death—all while Shiro futilely tries to pacify them, while Hunk stutters nervously about something or other.

Lance is going on about some crazy spiel, telling Keith he should just ‘ _come over there and fight him like a man if he’s going to keep wasting their time with his nonsense_ ’, which makes no sense at all. But ironically and irrationally enough, Keith is about to do exactly that, forgetting the fact that he’s suspended hundreds of feet in the air on some pressure censored alien torture device block, because the pulse thrumming loud in his ears is drowning out all common sense in him.

Finally, Hunk’s voice booms over them in a shocking moment of clarity, telling them to stop loud enough that all four pause to gape in his direction, jarred by him using such an uncharacteristically brash tone.

“Uh, guys, I don’t mean to be the bearer of bad news here, but uh.” Hunk points to a giant holographic screen Keith hadn’t realized had appeared and apparently been hanging above them for god knows how long. It’s bearing numbers on its interface that are rapidly decreasing by the second—five, then four, three...

“What the quiznakking hell is that?” Keith thinks he hears Lance say somewhat breathlessly.

“Yeah, while you all were fighting, Coran put a timer on, so—”

Hunk doesn’t get a chance to finish, and neither do they get a chance to continue listening, because they’re all plummeting fast towards the ground at neck breaking speed.

It’s a blur after that—a wildly spinning, disorienting vortex of a blur of their synchronized screams and distorted flashing lights while they free fall for what seems like ages, as if time is slowing down just to torture them all for not being able to work together for more than a few minutes. Keith’s heart thuds up into his throat, the pit of his stomach seems to bottom out. So much for keeping his nausea under control.

Their jet packs still haven’t been fixed, armor entirely useless from a fall this far, and none of them were allowed to bring their bayards up as per the stipulations of the exercise. Keith’s preparing for the end, thinking back to all his memories of times past where he felt accomplished in his life and never had to put up with bullshit like this, when he flops belly-first onto something solid, yet flexible and bouncy, like some sort of invisible net, mere inches from the ground.

Trying to stop the spinning of his head, through the blur of his vision Keith can make out his teammates groaning in various awkward positions also suspended seemingly in mid air around him. Lights flicker on, accentuating the lines of what’s beneath them, which does look a lot like a blue colored laser net. They’re alive, he’s alive, his tucked away suspicions were right—of fucking course Coran wouldn’t let them _actually_ fall to their deaths.

It’s not the end of the nightmare, however.

Because Keith finds himself face-to-face with the man in question, looking anything less than pleased, which may possibly be worse.

 

* * *

 

“You’re...not going to tell Allura about this, are you?” Lance is unbelievably pale, looking worse for wear by the second. Groaning, he gets down on his knees in front of Coran, dragging at the lapels of his uniform pathetically. “God, you’re going to tell Allura about this, aren’t you? Just throw me out into space instead, Coran, it’ll be easier, I swear.”

Sheepishly, Keith flicks his gaze to the ground as Lance dramatically pleads for Coran to have mercy on them—well, at least, for himself, he’s still throwing Keith under the bus intermittently.

Oh well.

Now that he’s settled down and been able to get a grip on the situation, Keith knows that whatever punishment Allura has in store for them will far outweigh some petty rivalry he’s got going on with Lance. Coran’s already dismissed the others, deeming them as the obvious problem area yet again, even though Keith couldn’t help but want to protest that Pidge joining in on it all didn’t help anything.

But then again, Pidge is a lot younger than them, and as an adult in this scenario he doesn’t think he has any redeeming excuses of why he was bickering with Lance in the thick of a team-building exercise like a kid younger than even her. Shame weighs down on him,  somehow more so than when he woke up to find himself nestled up to Lance in his bed earlier.

“Perhaps I will,” Coran says flippantly, twirling at his mustache. “I mean, by all accounts and purposes, I _should_. It’s sort of my job here.”

He heaves a sigh, prying Lance off of him. His eyes become softer, his body less rigid, voice less stern. “But…”

Keith blinks. “But?” he asks, perking up.

“Ha, _but_! You said ‘but’, no backsies! That means there’s still hope. I always knew you were the best, Coran!” Lance laughs, hopping to his feet, looking ready to gather Coran in a big hug. Coran steps back from his advances before he can do so, putting up a hand to stop him.

“Don’t get me wrong, this will still entail quite a bit of work from you two.” He strokes his mustache as he says it in a way that is making Keith not so sure he likes whatever this alternative may be. “Yes, quite a bit of work indeed.”

Lance taps idly at the armor of his thigh and tilts his head. “What in the Sam Hill are you going on about here, Coran?”

“Well, I don’t know about any of these ‘samhills’ you’re speaking of, but I do know of a place...or person, rather, who could possibly help accelerate you working out your differences and strengthen the bond between you two, so that we can stop this from continuing to happen.” Coran rocks on his heels, laces his hands behind his back. “And Allura would be none the wiser about it, it could be our little secret, of course, so long as you progress.”

“What sort of place?” Keith asks, suspicious especially in the fact that Coran keeping any information from Allura sounds too good to be true.

Lance, as usual, isn’t as wary, since he’d rather take on some mysterious task—which, knowing Coran, could be dangerous and have a possible unpleasant twist to it—over facing Allura’s hypothetical wrath. He waves at Keith like he’s a particularly pesky fly.

“Don’t mind his silly questions, we’ll take it! Whatever you want, Coran. I, for one, am willing to do anything for the sake of Voltron and for the team.” He smirks at Keith, who grits back the bite of an insult on the tip of his tongue.  “How about you, Keith? Or are you not as dedicated as someone as me?” Lance continues teasing, and it’s almost as if he _wants_ Keith to beat the shit out of him today. “Or maybe...you’re too scared to try whatever it is?”

“I’m not _scared_ , it’s a reasonable and logical thing to ask, but whatever.” Keith focuses on ignoring Lance’s shit-eating grin and addresses Coran. “Coran, I, too, will do whatever it takes to somehow make this guy more bearable. Honestly, I mean _anything_.”

Lance’s smugness falls at that.  He clicks his tongue and folds his arms across his chest, but thankfully doesn’t say another word.

“Great, it’s settled then!” Coran pulls out some digital notepad, scrawling something on it hurriedly before whisking a hand over it to pull the text off of it, duplicating another page from thin air to give to Lance. “These will be your coordinates to fly to, and the name of whom you’ll be seeing for part one of your bonding mission tomorrow. You will be meeting with an old, dear friend of mine, an exceptionally wise and talented leader of his species, if I do say so myself.”

The text automatically reassembles itself from Altean into English, and Keith peers at it curiously over Lance’s shoulder. They look at each other with eyebrows raised before looking back to Coran, who’s starting to head out of the training deck.

“You’ll be leaving first thing in the morning, so I advise you both to rest up,” Coran calls to them as he goes.

“Wait, the alien’s name is _Kevin_?” Lance splutters, but Coran is already waving goodbye and disappearing through the sliding doors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  [1] Some of you may remember that I began writing this before it was revealed Lance was the baby of his large family and that the two little kids in his family photo are, in fact, his niece and nephew. This led me to edit as I would like to keep as accurate and close to canon as possible, despite not still fully knowing much about them, which is why I changed to the canon names that were finally given in season 5. However, I am keeping one extra sister, just because....why not.
> 
>  
> 
>  Since I put Lance as 19 in this story, this is my revised HC of his family. I’ll give the ages of each sibling/family member along with their name at the time that he left Earth. His sisters are Maritza (21) and Veronica (25). His brothers are Marco (23) and Luis (29). His niece and nephew are Dalila (Dali, 5) and Desiderio (Desi, 7), son and daughter of Luis.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> [2] “Get off of me...scoot over” then “damn/shit, it’s too hot for this...”   
>  


	5. The Cold Side of the Pillow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you _really_ think,” Keith says levelly after a second of letting the gravity of that stupidity hang there, “that a random boy in our class at the Garrison was actually an over 10,000 year old alien guru in disguise?”

“It’s a mistranslation,” Lance says, and there’s a light rapping noise like that of him tapping his fingers against something. Keith wants nothing more in that moment than to throw his pillow at him. “I mean, it has to be, right?”

“Lance.”

They’re laying in Lance’s bed again, something Keith told himself he wouldn’t be drawn back to, and yet, here he is anyway—curled under the sheets with Lance’s fingers sifting rhythmically through his hair as they lay mostly side by side, albeit with a large gap between the rest of their bodies.

It was easier than Keith thought it would be, though. The nightmare excuse worked in his favor, and really was the best cover up for the situation. Apparently, Lance did have quite the weak spot for what he deemed as ‘ _charity cases that needed to be snuggled by his magnificent bod in order to feel safe and warm_ ’.

All Keith had done was show up at his door after he struggled futilely to go to sleep in his own bed for hours. He stood there awkwardly for a few seconds before Lance had roused himself from the lumpy mess of a blanket burrito he had going on, obviously having already been asleep. Keith felt a little bad about waking him, but Lance had ushered him in without protest, rubbing his eyes and yawning.

Then he spoke in this quiet, gentle voice that was unlike him, “Bad dream again, huh?”

Keith nodded, because he didn’t know what else to do. Something like a spell had come over him, and he was completely hypnotized the moment he set foot in Lance’s room, the moment he felt exhilarated imagining the reward of having Lance’s hands on him.

Beckoning with one finger, Lance patted the mattress with his other hand and moved over without any form of protest, despite their heated argument during the simulation earlier that day, despite all the negative tension that seemed to constantly hang over them.

There appeared to be an unspoken agreement that this would be a no-war zone for the time being. Keith thought that being tired probably also played a huge part in it, as there was nothing like a bit of sleep deprivation to loosen inhibitions, he supposed.

“Come here then,” Lance had said, and Keith eagerly followed that command, though his legs moved almost in slow-motion, drawing cautiously towards Lance as if his muscles were more uncertain than his brain about doing this again.

He felt like he’d been wading through unbelievably thick water, like his head was stuffed with cotton for some reason. There was something about the way Lance looked then, all welcoming and comforting, that was confusing him. It gave Keith a sense of déjà vu, eerily similar to the emotion he couldn’t quite put his finger on that made him at ease whenever he returned to his shack on Earth after a long day of trekking around in the desert.

Bathed in the soft glow of the stars with the sheet haphazardly draped across his legs, Lance was leaning back on his palms with his mussed up hair sticking out at endearingly odd angles, still looking somewhat groggy. His shirt was skirting up enough to reveal a peek at the taught muscles and golden brown skin of his abdomen above bony, protruding hip bones.   

He’d flashed him this soft, understanding sort of smile then, sparking something low and foreign in Keith’s stomach. He thought it was probably because he shouldn’t have eaten more food goo after it had been so unsettled from the team building exercise fiasco—yeah, that must have been why it was lurching again.

Lance’s soft smile had morphed into his trademark smug smirk, signifying that he was probably about to say something stupid and completely ruin the strangely touching moment, because he was Lance.

“Just let big bro Lance cuddle away your fears and make it alllll better. ”

...And he did.

It didn’t matter that Keith had groaned and swatted Lance on the back of the head for that, he’d stupidly climbed into bed with him all the same.

Keith prides himself in at least having the forethought to wear more clothing this time—a set of Altean red silken pants and a matching loose tank top he found in his closet—though he’s already feeling sweat collect over his feverish, tingling skin. Lance’s fingers soothe his worries while also shuddering strange shivers down his spine as they glide over his scalp, easing tension away bit by bit to the point he can barely remember what he was so angry about with Lance earlier, completely forgets what they even fought about in the first place.

It’s healing almost, and Keith hates it. He hates that his body is starting to rely on this subtle form of touch, of connection. It’s dependence, plain and simple, he thinks. Dependence on _Lance_ , of all people, and that’s probably what’s most embarrassing about it all, above everything else.

Regardless of all his mixed feelings and thoughts on the matter, he was just starting to get comfortable and drowsy when Lance had started talking, and then of course, wouldn’t fucking stop.

“No really, listen,” Lance insists stubbornly, twirling a lock of hair, and Keith can barely make out through the dark that he’s propped up on one elbow, staring pensively off into the distance at the stars out the window. “Like, sometimes things get lost in translation, and y’know, these alien translation machines aren’t an exact science, I bet.”

“ _Lance,_ please shut the hell up already.”

Lance bristles a little, fingers absently tightening in the strands grasped in his hand to the point Keith’s head is dragged forward. It’s so slight it can barely be called forceful, and it’s probably not on purpose, but it provokes a reaction in Keith all the same. Barely containing the whimper that threatens to leave his lips, Keith is glad for the cover of the night, because he’s sure his whole face is matching his outfit judging by the amount it’s burning against the cool sheets.

Fuck, what the hell was _that_? Keith sinks further beneath the covers, entire body so uncomfortably hot now. That small pull had a curious, pleasing effect on him that he sure as hell does not want to address, _ever_.

“Hey, it’s a theory of mine that isn’t entirely unfounded, okay.”

If Lance notices how he’s wriggling even farther from him, how he’s trying to lower his head away from the reach of his fingers, it doesn’t seem to phase him at all. He’s so caught up in speaking his mind that luckily he’s not asking any questions.

“Pidge and I once discovered that a Galra translation of their word for ‘toilet’ actually came out as ‘trash can’ in English. These machines can be dangerous. You can’t always trust them, Keith.”

Lance’s fingers slacken enough for him to slip away quietly, head sinking further into the blankets. “Lance, for fuck’s sake,” Keith sighs, hands clenching and unclenching in the sheets as irritation crawls across his skin.

Without looking, Lance continues stroking through his hair, somehow following the drop of his head and picking up his ministrations right where he left off like he doesn’t realize Keith is desperately trying to evade them.

“His name is probably something more like, Kelvian or some weird ass shit.” Lance pokes Keith’s shoulder with his free hand, the one that currently isn’t running through his hair while Lance runs his mouth along with it. “What do you think? Keevanbrox the third, maybe? Keetle? Kevononia?”

“I think you should shut up.”

Keith can practically hear Lance frown. “No, that's probably too long.”

Keith flicks him in the arm, _hard_.  “Lance, just fucking accept that his name is Kevin, and go the fuck to sleep.”

“But I can’t,” Lance whines, drawing his knees to his chest to keep the rest of his body away from flicking distance. “It doesn’t make sense. It’s  _haunting_ me.”

“Well, I’m gonna need you to, or else I’m going to…” Keith blanches, not sure where he was planning to go with his threat. He’s starting to suspect that Lance’s fingers may have the power to erase memories or reduce brain function somehow by proxy. “Uh, I’ll...I’ll leave, I guess.”

“Right.”

There’s finally a long pause, and Keith relaxes once more, heart rate beginning to level out after having spiked oddly when his hair had been tugged. He’s able to enjoy the scrape of Lance’s fingernails over his scalp as he was before in the incredibly pleasant silence that follows, when of course, Lance has to simultaneously ruin and improve the moment.

“...Well, the door’s right over there, bud. No one’s stopping you.”

“Ugh!” Keith presses his palms to Lance’s chest, pushing him away roughly. “Fine, I fucking will! Since you keep talking so much, I’d rather brave the nightmares than have to deal with this shit all night.”

It’s a bold bluff if he’s ever given one—there’s nothing that makes Keith’s heart sink more than the instant he feels the cold air envelope him when he flips off the covers and starts to get up, but he’s always been entirely too obstinate for his own good when he’s trying to make a point, especially when bets or threats are involved.

He isn’t expecting the warm, soft fingers that wrap around his wrist gently then and stop him in his tracks. He isn’t expecting to feel them trying to coax him back to where he had been. Keith freezes, looking over his shoulder to see the dim outline of Lance’s face, expression vastly indecipherable as he stares at him for a few tensely silent seconds.

The sigh Lance gives then isn’t much more than a muted hiss against his teeth. “I'm sorry, that was...mean of me.” He glances to the side, shadows casting seemingly darker against his cheeks. “You can stay as long as you like. You shouldn’t have to…”

He seems to struggle with finding the right words, and Keith sure as hell can’t find any of his own to help him out. He’s not even sure he’s capable of speech right now.

“Just. It’s fine. Coran said we needed to get some rest, right?” Lance is fiddling with the sheets, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself as much as he’s trying to convince Keith. “So...not getting a good night’s sleep isn’t going to help you. Er, well us. Um. I mean.”

Lance clears his throat. “T-the _team_ ,” he decides on, sounding more resolute in that response. “It isn’t going to help the team if you don’t sleep and then aren’t prepared for this bonding thing tomorrow.”

Keith falters, watching the careful flex of Lance’s fingers around his wrist, confused by the slight tremor that transfers right over his pulse. Lance’s palm, although somewhat clammy and about a full ten degrees colder than his own, is reassuring and sparking that newfound heat in a trail radiating up his entire arm. He’s suddenly reminded of how tired he is, how heavy his body feels.

He has no qualms about getting back in bed with Lance, and honestly, he’s so sleepy he wouldn’t mind just diving right back into it. But for the sake of self-preservation, he resists that urge to act like a little kid and slowly, stiffly sits back down on the mattress.

He doesn’t understand any of this—Lance’s unexpected apology, that quiet, careful voice he’s using again, Lance lifting the covers and guiding him to lay down, which Keith obliges without resistance in continued silence, having gone completely mute at this point.

The gap between them stays, as neither of them seems willing to breach that, at least not while they’re still conscious. Keith wonders if he’ll wake embarrassingly wrapped around him again. For now though, there’s this new awkwardness to deal with when Lance decides to face him, laying there on his side and just sort of looking at him with his nose scrunched up.

Keith sniffs himself as discreetly as he can manage, though he puzzlingly doesn’t find any trace of a lingering bad odor that Lance might be finding offensive.

“That reminds me…” Lance says after a beat, eyes lingering higher away from his face, as if he’s focusing on some invisible thing hanging in the air above Keith’s head.

Keith sighs, but before he can work up the words to start berating him again, Lance shushes him with a finger against his lips. “Seriously, just hear me out, this is my last train of thought. I promise I’ll go to sleep after this.”

Keith flicks his tongue out, licking a sloppy stripe up his finger, and Lance recoils, immediately complaining about how Keith got his ‘disgusting mullet germs on him’ as he wipes his hand vigorously against the sheets. Once he stops over-exaggerating and flops back down with a glare, Keith grunts noncommittally. He doesn’t really see the harm in allowing Lance to say one last dumb thing, still fairly overwhelmed by the fact that Lance let him stay.

“Whatever. Do what you want. What is it now?”

“Remember that guy at the Garrison named Kevin?”

He doesn’t, but then again, Keith doesn’t remember paying attention much to any of his fellow cadets in the first place, let alone memorizing something as trivial as their names.

“Um...not really.”

Lance furrows his brows. “Really?” he asks, sounding genuinely surprised. Keith nods, not sure what the point of all of this is.

“Huh. Kinda hard to forget him, is all. You know, he was that strange kid who always breathed really heavily and liked, ah...what was it again? It was super weird.” Lance squints, then snaps his fingers. “Yarn. The fucker liked to collect different colored yarn. Like who does that? So obviously people tended to go out of their way to avoid him, it was hard to miss, really.”

The murky blue of Lance’s eyes are calculating as they search his face. Keith inches farther away from him, at least to the point where he doesn’t have to feel the full force of Lance’s hot breaths against his cheeks or feel drawn in by some unnamed emotion whenever he gets a glimpse of that deep blue. It feels uneasily similar to staring into the dark depths of the ocean while being caught in a maelstrom of waves and riptides.

“Anyway, I hope this isn’t somehow him. Was not a fan of that dude. That was all I had to say, okay, I’m done.”

“Do you _really_ think,” Keith says levelly after a second of letting the gravity of that stupidity hang there, “that a random boy in our class at the Garrison was actually an over 10,000 year old alien guru in disguise?”

Keith flinches, when out of nowhere, Lance reaches over and tucks some stray hair behind his ear. He scratches at his scalp before yanking his hand away quickly, as if he’d gotten a particularly bad static shock.  

Keith blinks in the aftermath of the weirdness as Lance flips over to face away from him, staring at the outline of Lance’s turned away form in confusion as his own hand touches the strand now neatly put away.

Still, Lance responds, light and airy. “Hey, you never know.”

 

* * *

 

Breakfast that morning is nothing short of awkward. For Lance, anyway.

Lance tenses when Keith stretches past him at the table for some funky space spice that Hunk created, their arms brushing lightly together as he does. Lance splutters a cough into his food goo, but Keith carries on with a completely placid expression like he didn’t just mercilessly invade his space. Lance pauses with his spoon midair to rub at his eyes with his free hand, trying to blink this living nightmare away.

Being awake and lucid is an unbelievably sobering experience. Knowing that Keith slept with him in his bed for the second night in a row (technically the third, if you counted him being the bed the night before that) is the most surreal thing Lance thinks he’s ever been through since they’ve left Earth, more surreal even than the moment he found out he was going to pilot a giant, sentient lion in space to defeat an evil dictator responsible for taking over the majority of the known universe.

Well, alright. Maybe not _that_ surreal, but it’s definitely up there on his list.

They don’t talk about the night before. In fact, they don’t talk about anything, both busying themselves with chewing in order to not have to say a word. Or at least, Lance knows that’s what his plan is, which he’s carrying out exceedingly well at the moment, _thank you very much_.

A little too well, maybe, judging by the way Pidge keeps eyeing him in disgust with every sloppy inhale of goo into his mouth at the speed of light.

So maybe he’s feeling a little more awkward than Keith about this, who seems completely content to keeping this their indulgent nighttime secret that he somehow wills himself to forget during the day. So maybe Lance is having more trouble focusing every time Keith so much as lightly brushes past him. So what.

Lance scowls, reaches across the table, and pushes the stupid spice closer to Keith, whose fingers don’t quite reach it. Another lump of goo gets lodged in his throat to chase the three other lumps he’s just shoved in when Keith grunts a quiet, still sleep-tinged  ‘ _thanks’_ around a mouthful of food.

None of this is fair.

Keith isn’t the one who woke up with a hand burning hot like a furnace slipped under his shirt, and another drawing aimless circles over his bare hipbone. Keith didn’t wake up to the smiling lips of his supposed rival inches away from his own mouth upon opening his eyes. Keith didn’t get a close-up of full lashes framed over relaxed cheekbones, the intimate look at lines of Lance’s face that he may have convinced himself he never noticed before. Keith didn’t have to deal with Lance being the one drowsily calling out for him to stay when he’d all but scrambled to the other side of the bed.

No, Keith had the luxury of remaining oblivious to these slip-ups, all while Lance had to work through his erratic breathing—in through his nose, out through his mouth, mantra of ‘ _dear god holy shit save me’_ on repeat, over and over until it leveled again—after disentangling himself from the blistering leech.

And he surely hadn’t stuck around to see what Keith _did_ experience when he woke up, because Lance was already pulling clothes on probably inside-out and backwards (fuck if he cared), and rushing out of his bedroom as if he was on fire, far, far before then.

Lance chokes down the goo, eyes watering, washing it all back with some water quickly before it decides to come back up. With a small hiccup, he feels the burn of it all unpleasantly throughout his throat, bitter and chalky. Shiro gives him a strange look from his position across from him, but if he has something he wants to say, he thankfully decides against it.

Lance’s eyes raise back to the room. One, two, three, four, five, six— _s_ _even._

Lance counts them again, just to make sure this isn’t all part of a terrible fever dream, but—seven! There’s _seven_ empty chairs between him and Shiro, seven perfectly good chairs that Keith immediately rejected in favor of sitting _right next to him_.

Keith hadn’t even so much as glanced at the other open seats when he strode in earlier, yawning and scratching at his rumpled hair. He’d made a beeline straight for that _one spot_ near Lance, as if he’d planned to do that all along.

Lance wasn’t the only one to raise an eyebrow at that, the rest of the team eyeing them both carefully, probably wondering what could have possibly happened between their fight and now that would warrant this friendly move.

He lets his spoon clatter into his bowl angrily. It doesn’t make sense. There’s no logical reason why Keith’s chosen to remain so distressingly, frustratingly _close_.

Coran saves Lance from having to make any attempt at small talk now that his mouth is clear, ushering them down to the hull before they can get a word in edgewise. After briefing them on the particulars of what they were to do, in which he explained that he told the others they were being sent on a mission to collect some materials he needed and to strictly stick to that story, he coaxes them towards the back row, to a small pod ship already set up to follow the course he’s programmed into its navigation system.

Keith turns to really look at Lance then for the first time since he stared at him, lip caught between his teeth with intricate shadows splaying over his widened eyes, back when Lance gave him permission to stay the night.

It’s futile to fight that one away. That particular image has been burned beneath Lance’s eyelids forever.

Lance gulps, pushes it down anyway.

“You ready?” Keith goads, a faint smirk lining his lips, challenge resting between the lines of his words.

Lance faces him with as much bravado as he can still muster. He rushes past him before Keith can pick up on the fact that he intends to pilot, jumping happily into the cockpit.

Yeah, the driver’s seat gives the _perfect_   view of Keith’s more familiar, pissed-off face.

“Buddy, I was _born_ ready.”

 

* * *

 

Coran didn’t warn them that the planet of Muninn was like stepping onto the icy plains of a frozen tundra.

“Oh my god, I’m literally freezing my ass off,” Lance groans, teeth chattering, rubbing his shoulders as they stumble down a narrow passage leading into a foreboding looking side of a cliff set into the woods. There isn’t enough friction in the world to return the feeling back to his body, frost settling seemingly deep into his bones.

“Okay, first of all, that isn’t true and you clearly don’t understand what ‘literally’ means,” Keith just has to retaliate, breath hanging visibly irritated in the air, “Second, you’ve got no fucking room to complain about anything after nearly crash-landing us on here. I mean, there’s still a good chance I’m gonna puke after that crazy ride, fair warning.”

Lance frowns, sliding on a patch of black ice and almost falling completely down, if not for Keith being there to grip his arm and steady him back out.

Stupid Keith, with his stupidly strong, muscular arms and low center of gravity.

“Whatever.”

Lance rolls his eyes, brushing off Keith’s hands, because of course he can more than handle this by himself. The heat emanating from Keith is palpable in comparison to the frigid air, more so than usual, as if his body is naturally composed of flames. Lance tries not to pay too much attention to how all of his nerves are screaming for him to move closer to soak in some of his extra warmth.

“I got us here in one piece, didn’t I, so what’s it matter?”

Keith snorts, twirling his awakened blade idly in his hand, which seems unnecessary to have brought along considering they both have their bayards. Lance doesn't mention it, glancing at the movement from the corner of his eye. Keith doesn’t appear to be affected by the chill, face stretched to the sky and sighing as if this uncomfortable, well-below freezing temperature is akin to stepping into soothing, cool water after being exposed to the hot sun for hours during a particularly humid day.

He chuckles, this strange fondness sitting behind it instead of malice that makes Lance’s eyebrows raise, makes his skin prickle with goosebumps.  “Yeah, by the skin of your teeth.”

Lance huffs a laugh, watching it cling into a misty cloud before it dissipates in front of him. "Hey, don't knock my brilliant methods if they're successful. You obviously don't understand how my super awesome mind works."

"I don't think I want to know," Keith responds airily, re-sheathing his blade as they draw nearer to their destination.

They’re approaching a heavy stone door engraved into the side of the cliff, bearing strange golden markings all around it in a language Lance naturally has never seen before. The ground seems to only get slicker the closer they get to it, the temperature dropping by the second. The trees are thick and broad, with gnarled branches curling out towards the sky, until they get so deep into the forest that it becomes completely obscured.

“I know you’re lying, anyway,” Lance says with a sigh, speaking without really thinking much of it as he stares up at the vastness of the rock face when they reach it, which is breathtaking in its own right. It’s composed of some glossy material, like the finest slab of ebony marble. He can see every bit of himself reflected on its surface like a mirror. “You don’t get ship-sick, you’ve got a stomach made of steel. It takes a lot for you to throw up. You’ll live.”

“That doesn’t mean you need to try and get me to that point, you...” Keith begins, but stops abruptly.

Lance doesn’t turn around, knocking on the door like Coran told them to do when they got there, recoiling with a hiss when he makes contact. It’s like experiencing freezer burn, like his fingers have been plunged straight into the arctic ocean.

Keith’s furrowed brows and confused expression stare back at him in the marble. “Wait, how did you kn—”

Keith doesn’t get the chance to finish whatever he was going to say next. The door isn’t what’s opening.

The ground beneath them does instead, shaking before swallowing them up like tiny toy soldiers. The next thing they know, they’re both tumbling, sliding through an ice-lined pitch-black tunnel at breakneck speed.

Their screams are only amplified by the close quarters, echoey and disorienting, as they jettison through it not unlike that time they had to escape from the broken-down elevator shaft. It's sort of sad he can say he has experience in such a thing, which is barely helping him feel any better right now. Lance tries to ease away the sudden drop of his stomach and gut-wrenching fear of having no idea where they’re going to end up on this unexpected Willa-Wonka esque ride by convincing himself that Keith is screaming much louder and more femininely high-pitched, since _he’s_ obviously the braver of the two.

The tunnel seems to go on forever, enough so that their screams subside after a few minutes as they adjust to the rapid pace they’re shooting through it in the dark. Lance is honestly about to start complaining about being bored when the tunnel squeezes them into a chute that spits them out into some thriving, underground icicle city.

 _Great_ , Lance thinks, brushing some cold, fluffy white stuff off him that he landed in, struggling to get to his feet. _Just great_.

 _Everything—_ the buildings, the cobblestone paths, the tiny carts that resemble antiquated cars below the hill they’ve landed on—is composed of giant slabs of ice or snow, somehow. From tiny huts much like igloos, to bigger, more castle-like houses and shops, all of the foundations appear to be constructed by carefully stacked blocks of glittering, pristine ice.

The aliens bustling about, Lance almost expects to be part yeti or something, but they’re more reptilian, bird-like hybrids, displaying a strange mixture of scales and feathers. They have varied types of tails. Lance catches a glimpse of prehensile monkey-like ones, but a few feet later he notices a shorter alien with one that is forked, like some sort of demon. A few have horns, while others have curved beaks—or more confusingly, some have all three things.

Sexual dimorphism here, Lance faintly recalls the term he learned in biology, is so varied he’s not sure it’s entirely clear what gender identity to describe them with—so he doesn’t, ultimately settling with referring to them as _birdtilians_ ( which sounds way cooler, obviously _)_. All of them _do_ have one thing in common, however—they’re all either oblivious, or straight up ignoring his and Keith’s presence as they trudge through the knee deep snow to the tiny igloo with the mark they recognize from Coran’s pamphlets.

This is technically supposed to be his element, Lance thinks, shivering as he miserably wades through the wintry mess, feeling the dampness start to soak through his suit. Ice is only another state of water, after all.

But admittedly, the cold has never been his thing. Growing up in Havana, he hadn’t ever seen so much as a drop in temperature lower than 70 degrees, let alone a snowflake. The Garrison hadn't been much different. He’s more than a little jealous seeing the way Keith appears to be more comfortable, to be thriving in this atmosphere. His feet glide over the patches of ice easily when they reach the path, never losing his footing. He’s as strong and confident as he ever is, chest pushed forward, shoulders set back. The only indication that maybe his more human side is feeling the sting of the air is the subtle flush sitting along his cheeks and nose.

Lance glares at the traitorous, white piles around them, wishing he had never agreed to this so eagerly in the first place.

“So…” Keith speaks up when they get to the igloo, frowning at the lack of any sort of obvious entrance. “What do we do from here again? I forget.”

Wordlessly, in too much of a bitter mood to properly respond without starting a fight, Lance kicks a foot at the ice-laden bush beside them, because hell if he’s touching anything with his hands again. He braces himself for another trapdoor to a reverse temperature Hell slip-n-slide, but this time, the outline of a door magically cracks through one slab of the igloo’s solid wall.

Okay, so clearly, the Muninnians just enjoy fucking with people.

A slot opens up near the top of the new door. Both Keith and Lance stare up as two eyes with clear, gray irises appears in it, glaring back down at them.

“What the hell do you two want? It’s after hours, we’re closed for the day. Buzz off.”

The voice that calls out to them through the door—apparently the owner of the eyes narrowed at them in distaste - is startling, to say the least. It’s unexpectedly high-pitched, whiny and childlike.

“Um,” Lance says, caught off guard, and Keith stammers something unintelligible beside him. It takes him a moment to refocus, but then Lance is pressing on, ever the one more capable in social situations, which he most definitely is taking as his small victory over Keith for the time being.

“Sorry to bother you, but we’re here to, uh, see...Kevin? We’re paladins of Voltron, Coran sent us, he said you would know—”

“Right, right, sorry, of course, of course,” the voice lilts hurriedly, cracking like a boy going through a rough patch of puberty over him, “Come in, come in!”

Suspiciously, the owner of the voice sounds more excited than irritated now, and there’s the sound of something metal-like scraping against the ground, of something thudding dully. The door swings open without Lance having to say anything else.

There’s an inviting warmth coming from inside the small entrance way, and as much as that feels incredibly relieving, Lance isn’t paying attention to that. Both his and Keith’s gazes drastically fall—and continues falling.

The owner of the voice _sounds_ childlike, because there is no denying that this is an actual _alien_ _child_   standing before them, the top of its feathered head no higher than Keith’s waist.

“Gentleman,” the birdtilian kid nods, sweeping a tiny, forked tail towards a dim hallway, “ _I_ am Kevin. Please, follow me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, it’s been like two months. Um. I am extremely sorry for the delay, haha. I was honestly waiting for season 2 to come out first because the future of this story depends heavily on knowing at least some of Keith’s background, and now that we got such a lovely Keith-filled season, I have a better idea of what to do with specific scenes! There’s definitely no tragic or sad things coming up soon at all! :)
> 
> Originally, this chapter was split a lot differently with more of an inside look at Kevin and at what Keith and Lance will be doing to bond, but I decided to add more to the emotional change the boys are starting to go through and save the Kevin parts for next chapter (which means that is actually half-written already). And yes, if it wasn’t super clear, Keith’s extreme body temperatures are due to his half-Galra nature - which Lance is unfortunately getting a big taste of over time. For better or worse, though, that’s the question. 
> 
> Side note though, there is a bit of a subtle hint of what the aliens of this planet are capable of, if you’re into doing a bit of research. There is a lot of mythology that I’m incorporating into this to add some fun into the mix. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed it, and I look forward to sharing some of my OCs with you starting next chap!!


	6. Kevin, the Great Memory Melder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He’s beautiful_ , Lance thinks as he lets out a small gasp, completely losing his reign on his inhibitions.
> 
> He simply lets them fall into the ground, breaking into pieces as they do. It doesn’t matter. Keith is gorgeous, and there’s nothing he can do about that.

Kevin leads them down a darkened hallway without another word, the light tapping of his tiny feet the only sound echoing through it. Despite being made of ice, it’s a fantastical looking place that has Lance’s senses a bit disoriented. From floor to ceiling it appears to be wooden on the inside, but it smells sweet and exotic, like walking through a meadow of blooming flowers. The hallway stretches out like an optical illusion, even though the outside of the place appeared to be about a third of the size it actually was.

There’s a smoky substance, almost like a fog, drifting above them. Lance wonders if maybe that’s the source of the pleasant smell. Neatly lined along the walls are a multitude of framed parchments with indecipherable symbols on them, and as he passes by them, Lance swears they're glowing as if in response to their presence.

Thankfully, it’s warm and feels at the very least, welcoming. It's a nice relief to the freezing temperature, and feeling is finally returning to Lance’s numb limbs. Beside him, Keith is shuffling wordlessly, his hand at his hip to where his bayard is, tense, ready for any sort of action.

Lance considers maybe reaching out to tap him on the shoulder to try and reassure him they probably don’t need to worry about anything happening, but he knows when Keith is this strung-out, odds are more likely he’ll just end up with a weapon aimed in his own face. When the hallway finally ends, branching off into a few equally as lengthy directions, Kevin waves them towards a circular door that’s directly in front of them. He makes a gesture for them to go in first.

Lance bounds in without a second thought, turning around just in time to see Keith already with his knife out by his side, refusing to go ahead of Kevin. There's a deep glare on his face, an angry flash in his eyes.

It’s never bad to be cautious, sure, but there’s a time and a place for it. Lance can understand his need to continue being vigilant, but it's obvious by the distaste which comes to rest on Kevin's face, that this is sending the wrong message entirely. Rolling his eyes, Kevin silently relents with a peaceful raise of his arms, and trails in directly behind Lance instead.

It's a little much, Lance thinks as he watches Keith point his blade towards Kevin in continued warning as they enter together. If he doesn't intervene soon, they could possibly end up losing their only opportunity here. Sighing, Lance braces himself to do something he rarely, if ever, tries outside of his bed now, the only acceptable place for the time being that he knows Keith will allow the barest of touch.

Here's to hoping he can keep all his limbs.

With great caution, Lance rests a hand on Keith's shoulder when he makes it in, nudging his arm with his elbow to try and get the message across for him to relax. He’s seen Shiro do it enough without incident, and anything Shiro can do, surely he can at least twice as well. Still, it’s a gamble, and Lance has never been too good with luck or fortune.

But against all odds, it works. Keith even allows him to pat him gently, and lowers his blade without protest. There's a small, flicker of an uneasy glance towards him from under the fringe of his hair, but it happens so fast Lance can't be sure it even occurred.

Now that that hurdle has been passed, Lance pushes onto the next. “So you’re…” Lance squints, staring disbelievingly down at the small alien child glaring up at them. “You’re _really_ Kevin?”

Lance looks around the room before lowering his voice to a whisper and speaking with a hand held up to his face, afraid of the small possibility of being overheard. By what, exactly, he doesn’t know. “I mean, and it _is_ pronounced KEH- _vinn_ , spelled K-e-v-i-n...right?”

The kid scoffs, gesturing for them to sit down onto two dimly glowing chairs, by a fireplace crackling with some sort of blue flame.

“I am, and it is, what of it? You chums gotta problem with that?” He responds with a sniff, and Lance glances at Keith, who shrugs back with a clear look on his face that screams ‘ _don’t look at me, I have no clue what’s going on either_ ’.

It doesn’t matter if this _is_ Kevin, someone who may be able to help them where no one else can. Lance isn’t so sure he can take this kid seriously when all he does is remind him of a more belligerent and birdlike form of his nephew. It’s not helping that to get to his own chair, the kid pulls over a tiny step stool to boost himself up. If the situation weren’t so weirdly ominous, Lance probably would have let out a long ‘ _awww_ ’ at the sight.

They sit down, but Lance squirms in his chair, not about to let this go right away.

“No, I mean...no, dude. It’s just...you don’t look exactly like what we were _expecting_.”

It's Keith's turn to jab him with an elbow now (and god, could the guy be any rougher?), but Lance really can’t help himself. Kevin’s eyes flare to a murky red, irises filling and spreading to the whites of his eyes. The feathers on his head puff up slightly, his tail flicks around from underneath him.

“And what were you expecting, hmm?” Kevin asks in probably the lowest tone he can muster, which still comes out unbearably squeaky.

“Well, I don’t know,” Lance scratches his head, considering it, “Maybe, y’know, someone a bit...older.” Under his breath, he adds, “Or taller.”

“Oh my God, Lance,” Keith buries his face in his hands, “Knock it off.”

“Older?” Kevin repeats in a mocking tone, tapping his claws against the armrest, “I’ll have you know, I’m over 500 years old, _dickwads_.”

Sinking back in his chair, Lance furrows his brows. “Could have fooled me,” he grumbles.

Keith jabs him again, the look he turns on him so severe Lance shudders a little, sits back up straighter than before. An outbreak of goosebumps raise along his arms when Keith tells him, gravelly and firm, “I swear, if you don’t shut the fuck up, you’re going to ruin our chances of getting anything done here.”

Rubbing at his ribs, Lance glares at Keith in return. How dare he act like _he's_ the one ruining this when only seconds ago, the impulsive mullet had a knife at the ready to threaten Kevin.

Naturally, Keith only glares back. Kevin is looking back and forth between them, not glaring so much anymore as he is looking at them with increased curiosity. His tail swishes lazily as he observes them.

“What?” Lance isn’t going to let this go without a fight. He can’t believe Keith isn’t finding more of a problem with this whole situation. “Look at him.” Lance waves his hand towards Kevin. “He’s like ten inches from the ground!”

“You’re being so unbelievably rude right now,” Keith grits between his teeth, trying to keep his voice low so Kevin can’t hear them, “Coran sent us to him, so he must be here to help us. We’re supposed to trust Coran, and trust Kevin. It’s not your fucking place to make fun of them when obviously their species ages differently than us!”

Lance crosses his arms, feeling more annoyed by the second that even Keith isn’t on his side. This wouldn’t be happening if someone more understanding—like Shiro—were here, he thinks.

“Well, _sorry_ for not wanting a child to handle two adult’s problems!” He can feel his temper rising, about to give way to the illogical tide that is Keith, “And anyway, you've got no room to talk, you just held a goddamn knife up to his back!”

For once, Keith looks properly scandalized. Mildly embarrassed, even, if the blotch of pink spreading over the tips of his ears is anything to go by. Lance’s stomach tightens pleasantly, unable to keep his lips from curling further into a snarky smirk.

Maybe this will all be worth it in the end after all.

“That's a precaution I take with _everyone_ , it's nothing personal, it's _smart,_ ” Keith is raising his whispering volume gradually along with every word, “It's not like I was going to actually hurt him!”

It's then that Kevin raises a finger into the air to possibly retaliate that, his lips completely thinned and feathers ruffling back up. He doesn't get the chance to add anything, though, because a loud slam surprises all of them, immediately putting an end to their bickering.

Lance in particular is sure he’s jumped about five inches out of his seat. Their attention is promptly drawn to the doorway, where a much larger, much more furious birdtilian is standing. He’s a slender, tall guy, with a similar outfit to Kevin, except he’s wearing a brilliantly golden sash over his loose, tunic-like shirt. His forked tail is about three times as long as Kevin’s and pointing straight at his surprised face. A set of small, ornate glasses lies atop his beaked nose, his feathers are grayer, ruffled and sticking straight from the top of his head in obvious rage.

“Sparti, _out_ ,” he demands, looking at Kevin with markedly red, glowing irises.

“But I—” Kevin starts to say, but the enraged birdtilian cuts him off, drawing nearer to loom over him intimidatingly.

“I said, get the fuck out. I swear if you don’t right this instance, I’m going to let one of your hounds loose.”

Kevin—no, apparently, this kid’s name is _Sparti_ —glares up at the taller guy, eyes mixing into a strangely vivid orange. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“You wanna try me, pipsqueak?”

Kevin hops down from his chair, and Lance swears it takes a few seconds for him to reach the ground. His feathers are fluffed almost as if in warning, his tail straight in the air, like a pitchfork aimed at the ready to strike. Shrugging, he tells the new guy, “Maybe I do.”

Lance blinks, watching the scene unfold as if from a dream.

“Dude, what the hell is going on?” Keith mutters so close to his ear that he jumps again.

Lance shakes his head and waves him off, wanting to hear more of their conversation. What a plot twist. It's like something straight out of his favorite movies. He’s wholly invested in whatever this is, watching with baited breath as the two aliens stare each other down for a solid few minutes without uttering a sound.

Weird. Yeah, that’s definitely weird. He was expecting a confrontation of sorts.

They’re both locked in a staring contest to end all staring contests, their pupils dancing, expanding and changing hue like an LED on LSD. The suspense is killing Lance.

He glances at Keith, the tension of silence making him feel strange, anxious. Keith doesn’t appear to be as impressed or intrigued, and he clears his throat several times during the silence, fingers idly fiddling with his blade in his lap. Most likely bored because he has no stupid excuses to possibly use it, Lance muses.

“Ow! Ow, ouch, fuck,” Sparti cries, reeling back suddenly, clutching his head and gripping onto the armrest of his chair.

As he groans in obvious pain, Lance feels something akin to fear or panic rise in him, though he’s unable to tear his gaze away from this new guy. He isn’t doing much that looks out of the ordinary, only standing completely still with his eyes set on Sparti, but what is capturing Lance’s attention is the yellow that filters into his irises.

Before Lance can open his mouth to bring their attention back to the fact that they’re still there, Keith is jumping up and striding towards Sparti, planning to do god knows what. Lance moves after him quickly, something about that yellow making him uneasy enough to feel like letting Keith interfere would undeniably be a stupid thing to do right then. Keith is rounding on him and opening his mouth when Lance grabs his arm, no doubt ready to tell him to fuck off, but he doesn’t get the chance as the scene in front of them continues.

Sparti is straightening, pained expression waning—well, at least, he doesn’t seem to be physically hurt at all. Keith relaxes in Lance’s grasp and doesn’t say a word.

“Cheap shot,” Sparti mumbles quietly, rubbing his temples, and then so quickly around his eyes that had Lance never seen his younger siblings do it so much whenever they were trying not to show they were upset, he may have never noticed the tears gathered there at all.

Sparti rubs his arm, his entire standoff-ish and ready-to-fight-anything-that-moves demeanor completely gone. “I never...showed you that one, how did you know?”

“When the mind is vulnerable, you’d be surprised what can rise to the surface,” the man says simply, and despite the fact it sounds callous and more than a little chilling, Lance doesn’t feel an ounce of anything malicious about it. He presses forward, tail flicking across the floor, and clasps a hand to Sparti’s shoulder. The yellow in his irises is fading back to its original pale grey, and there’s a moment where he looks Sparti in the eye in this way that Lance turns away from to be respectful, because it seems somehow private.

The man turns him around and gently gives him a push towards the direction of the door. “Go back to the common room and get some rest. It isn’t going to get easier until you deal with that.”

“Fine,” Sparti grits. Giving a once-over back at them and waving flippantly, he adds to the man before he goes, “Some guy named Coran sent them. Don’t know their species, but they’re weird.”

Lance crosses his arms as Keith also assumes a defensive pose. “Hey man, we’re still right here. Not cool.”

The aliens continue to ignore them, and Lance wonders for about the thousandth time why alien species are so good at doing that to him.

“It’s probably you who’s weird to them,” the man replies airily, and Lance finds that he likes this guy a lot more than the bratty kid who just tried to con them. He pushes the step stool aside with his foot and flops onto the chair where Sparti had sat only moments earlier.

“Diagnostic?” he asks him, and Sparti shakes his head.

“No time to run a diagnostic, _obviously_ ,” Sparti’s haughty attitude resurfaces, and the man sighs. “But preliminary says this might be a tough case.”

“That so?”

The man cocks his head towards them. Embarrassingly, Lance realizes he’d still been holding Keith’s arm this whole time. He yanks it away fast enough that Keith raises an eyebrow at him.

The man flicks his fingers into the air, conjuring a holographic type of notepad in front of his face. He’s padding at a keyboard full of indecipherable symbols that unfolds out with it as he continues talking. “Give me a brief summary from your intuition reading, and I’ll consider pardoning your disobedient hissy fit.”

Nodding in reluctant agreement, Sparti rocks back on his heels as he turns towards them again.

“That one.” He points to Keith with one grubby finger, wiping his beak nose thing with the back of his sleeve as he raises his arm. “There’s a few difficult blocks, tertiary level. Probably doable if you’re persistent. The other is just…” Sparti raises a brow, giving Lance a thorough once-over in such a way that Lance hugs his arms to his chest, feeling oddly exposed. “He’s just disorganized. High-strung, for sure. Maybe dumb? I dunno. It’s your problem now, I guess. All in all though, their compatibility has the probability to be quite high with increased empathetic detail.”

Although he has no idea what they’re talking about, Lance can understand when to be offended. Who the hell does this kid think he is, anyway? High-strung, disorganized, _dumb_? He’s starting to regret ever having taken Coran’s advice to come here.

A few more buttons are prodded. “Suggestions?” The man inquires in a bored tone, without tearing his gaze away.

“Rigorous intensity protocol, if the blue one is really dense, I suppose. Red one…” Sparti’s irises shift to a cerulean blue this time. He tuts a little when Keith frowns at him. “Stubborn. Very guarded. Honestly, I don’t know what to recommend. He’ll need coaxing of his own accord to open up more, or else it simply won’t work.”

The man pauses to glance over at Keith, who now is matching his frown with a deep glare. Lance feels like he can relate. Having these two discuss something about them without even knowing what it’s really all about is beginning to frustrate him to no end, especially since they’re still acting like they don’t even exist.

“Hmm. So a consciousness pusher is needed?” The man suggests, irises shifting to blue as he also takes a good, long look at Keith. “A guide, maybe?”

“No, probably not.” Sparti laughs as the man nods and types a few more things in rapid succession. “In other words, it’s a free will issue, so good fucking luck.” Running his filthy fingers through the fine feathers of his head, he sighs, “Can I go now? I’ve just decided this is boring and definitely stupid.”

“You may. Skit is cooking in the hall, which you should probably go keep an eye on before he burns the entire place down. But go eat something, rest, deal with your _issue_. And take a fucking bath already, you reek.”

The man gestures to the door. He props his heels up on the step stool and leans back into his chair as he watches Sparti skip off towards the exit with a muttered ‘ _humph_ ’.

“You impersonate me again, though, you little shit, and I’ll gut you like a Norzodian lizard, got it?” He calls after him almost as an afterthought, and right as Sparti opens the door, he makes an exaggerated flourish of his tail, coiling it and pointing the fork of it straight at the man, whose eyes narrow.

Smothering a giggle into his palm, Lance watches the exchange, at least enjoying the entertainment for the time being. He can recognize a lewd gesture when he sees one despite the cultural barrier. He gets the impression this has a similar connotation to flipping someone off.

“Tch, whatever.”

“I’m taking that off your point sheet!”

The man glares as Sparti opens the door and stomps out, leaning wearily farther back in his seat. Lance would feel bad for him, maybe, if he didn’t feel so annoyed at being continuously ignored.  

“Quiznak, why do I have to deal with this so early in the quintant? Unbelievable.”

The man sighs again, presses one last button, and the panel in front of him blips out of existence. He sweeps his arms out, only to use his tail to point towards their seats. Finally, he acknowledges their existence with a wide, clear grey stare and a muted smile.

“Sorry about all that. Please, take your seats and let’s discuss business. _I_ am Kevin, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Wordlessly, after one more shared glance between them in which Lance notes Keith looks even more tired than usual, they sit back down.

“So _you’re_ Kevin?” Lance asks after a moment of silence when it becomes apparent Keith isn’t going to question any of this. “Well, that makes a little more sense I guess. But then who the hell was that?”

“Nobody important, just an apprentice of mine who still has much to learn. He’s just an immature kid, so don’t mind him.”

“Look,” Keith grits gruffly, “We don’t have all day here, so if you could just explain what the hell Coran wants us to do—”

Kevin cuts him off with a wave of his hand. There are no words, no warnings for what he does next. Leaning to the side of the fireplace, he pulls out a satchel and flicks a grain of something from it straight into the fire. The flames expand instantly, casting an intense blue glow over the room before it settles back to its original size amidst intermittent popping sounds.

Tingling warmth instantly washes over Lance, a pleasantness seeping deep into his sore muscles, kneading tension away as if he’d just received an hour long massage.

Not only does his body relax, but all of him seems to be letting go of a culmination of things mentally—his intense homesickness, general stress of being a part of Voltron, deep, dark hangups that occasionally come back to haunt him, pent up tension in relation to Keith which he’s denying has anything to do with things of a sexual nature.

Beside him, Keith makes a pleased ‘ _oh_ ’ exclamation, apparently feeling the effect of whatever this is as well. It’s a small, breathy sound, and Lance tries not to pay attention to the even warmer effect it’s settling into the pit of his stomach.

“That’s…” Keith starts, stops. His breathing seems off, and it takes him a minute to get better control of it, but he manages to finish his thought with a murmured, “...That feels _soft_.”

Lance lets his limbs splay wider as he sinks into the chair, which now feels akin to sitting on a cloud. Keith’s words are spilling into a tunnel of a melody that he swears is tangible in the air. That’s not a thought that makes much sense, maybe, he isn’t sure anymore.

There’s a tug within his heart that tells him to just stop thinking and _turn around_ , so Lance tips his head back to stare at Keith, which is a mistake he won’t be capable of properly processing until much later.

There, Keith is smiling wide, eyes more half lidded with a faint flush dusting his cheeks. Neon blue highlights the hair hanging into his face, across the angle of his lips. His freckles are illuminated and dancing. There’s peace written within his dimples, a dreaminess to his lithe figure, bathed in softly pulsing light.

 _He’s beautiful_ , Lance thinks as he lets out a small gasp, completely losing his reign on his inhibitions.

He simply lets them fall into the ground, breaking into pieces as they do. It doesn’t matter. Keith is gorgeous, and there’s nothing he can do about that.

Shrugging inwardly, Lance only thinks, _It is what it is_.

Yeah, he could get used to this state of mind. What are worries again? What is it that’s stressing him out in life? It’s a hazy blend now of ‘who-gives-a-flying-fuck’. Lance doesn’t care about any of it in that moment. There’s just this—a calming wave that settles deep into his bones and crashes relief through every insecurity he’s ever had, instantly solving it and making him more at peace than he’s felt since his lazy days lounging around on Varadero Beach.

“Nice, huh?” Kevin chuckles, and Lance snaps to slightly more alert, almost having forgotten he was there. “Just a relaxation herb to ease any discomfort you may be experiencing. It helps open the mind more without the distraction of pain or anything else that may be...clouding your memories.”

Kevin flicks his gaze briefly to Lance when he says that, and if Lance didn’t feel like he'd been blissfully hugged by Keith for a solid ten minutes, he’d probably be more annoyed at whatever Kevin might be insinuating.

“Dude.” Lance yawns, wondering if it would be appropriate to settle in for a nap. “Did you just _drug_ us?”

Kevin shrugs and laces his hands together to place over his crossed legs, leaning forward as if to inspect them more closely. “Eh. I prefer the term ‘gentle persuasion in order to set you into a more focused state’. Ah, well...semantics, I suppose.”

“Lance, let him talk. We’ve already wasted enough…” Keith is yawning as well, stretching a noodly arm to him and nudging him so lightly Lance isn’t sure why he bothered to touch him at all. “...time as it is.”

Lance is surprised to note that Keith berating him isn’t bothering him in the slightest. Instead, he laughs as if he’s at a party, about two double shots of vodka in and at the point where he’s chatting up the hot guy he wants to go home with. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

Keith’s eyes stretch open as if that’s an odd thing for him to say, making Lance’s grin grow wider, because Keith is kind of really being adorable.

Unfortunately, Keith doesn’t seem to be thinking the same things about him. “The hell? Did you just call me  _sweetheart_?”

Kevin comes to their rescue, redirects them before Lance can continue laughing at how cute Keith sounds, before Keith can yell at him for no reason some more. “You are stubborn, aren’t you? Try to relax, yeah?”

Keith slumps back in his seat, and Lance can hear him inhaling sharply, then exhaling slowly. It’s a good sound.

“You’re humans, right?” Kevin turns more towards Lance. “It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen anyone from your species.”

When Lance nods, his neck feels much more rubbery than usual. It’s honestly starting to get difficult to keep his head up.

“Well, I mean, I am, but Mr. Hothead over here is…” Lance glances to Keith again, who’s conveniently avoiding looking at either of them. He’s not surprised by that, the whole thing is still a pretty touchy subject. His heart tightens in sympathy. “...He’s uh, well. He’s half-Galra, so I don’t know if that makes a difference.”

Kevin stares for a moment, pausing. Lance feels a new tenseness fighting against the drug coursing through him, preparing to get up and defend Keith if need be, but Kevin eventually responds, just as levelly as he had been.

“Mmm. Well. A higher dose then may cause too intense of an effect, and then nothing would get done, so I’m sorry red one,” Kevin returns to facing Keith, speaking gently as if he can sense the tension from the way he’s avoiding eye contact, “You’ll have to attempt to let it flow through you. Don’t fight it. There is nothing to worry about or fear in here, not even your own mind, so don’t be a twat.”

“Yeah, babe, don’t be a twat,” Lance giggles, “Relax.”

Twat is such a funny sounding word. A funny sounding word that, in hindsight, an ancient alien guru named Kevin probably shouldn’t know. Weird, but it’s all still funny as fuck.

“Oh, you’ll see how much of a twat I can be if you keep calling me those fucking names, Lance!”

Keith instantly returns to that familiar blanket of anger, brows deeply furrowed, and Lance mourns the loss of his handsome smile. He says a silent prayer in his mind. May it rest in peace.

Lance doesn’t understand what’s got his panties in such a bunch, anyway. He can’t help but laugh a little harder when Keith rolls his eyes at him.

“I’m Keith,” Keith addresses Kevin, curtly nodding towards Lance. “This idiot, as you’ve probably already noticed, is Lance. Coran sent us here because he said you could help us work on our bonding issues. We’re paladins of Voltron, and things are tense between us sometimes, which isn’t good for forming it.”

Lance snorts at the word ‘sometimes’. “More like all times. Keith is a bit of an ass. But it’s cool, cause _I’m_ a pretty cool guy. Very chill, unlike Keith, so I’m _flexible_.”

To accentuate his point, Lance raises one leg straight into the air and bends it back towards his head, stretching an arm up to grab his foot as he twists towards Keith to waggle his eyebrows at him. Keith only flushes harder, tensing in his seat, looking very much like he’d prefer to more seriously smack him.

He does him one better by giving him a weak kick in the shin instead.

It doesn’t really hurt. Lance devolves into more laughter, finding everything about the situation absolutely hilarious.

“ _Lance—_ ”

Unlike most of the aliens they encounter in the galaxy, Kevin doesn’t appear to be phased about the mention of Voltron’s return, his demeanor unconcerned, like maybe he got wind of it ages ago.

However, a lot like everyone they meet, he’s definitely growing annoyed by their bickering.

“Enough,” he interrupts bruskly, at some level realizing it must be the only way to intervene when they fight. “I think I understand the issue here. Let me explain what I can do to help.”

Kevin's not just an ancient alien guru with a weird name, but an observant and fast learner. On top of that, he’s apparently extremely knowledgeable, and maybe has more than a few powerful supernatural gifts. The full sci-fi package, Lance thinks, trying hard to reign in his laughter.

This is serious. Probably.

“I’m a memory melder. It’s an ancient art that a certain number of our species are born with an innate ability to master.”

This grabs both of their attention. Lance stops laughing, instead works on getting his limbs to cooperate enough to keep his hands still in his lap as Kevin flicks his fingers back into the air, and a tiny, intricate scene swirls to life before their eyes. A backdrop into a story appears, miniature skulls opening and brainwave patterns flooding it like a snowglobe suspended without boundaries. It’s the coolest thing Lance has seen since they were with the Olkarions.

The brainwave patterns zigzag into a psychedelic twist of neurons emitting, like a map of the brain, but zoomed in on about 200 times magnification.

“Memories can be fickle things sometimes, but getting a peek into someone’s mind can be a most moving, and subsequently, intimate and life-changing experience,” Kevin waves his hands, and the axis of the brain tilts, the scene begins to morph. “We are able to breach the blocks that most species cannot, sort of like a type of telepathy. In this manner, I would be able to completely immerse each of you within each other’s past experiences.”

The warming feeling in the pit of Lance’s stomach begins to wane. His blood is running a little colder at Kevin’s words.

Share _his_ memories with _Keith_ ? His _private, intimate, detailed_ memories with obnoxious, annoying mullet-headed _Keith_? Oh, no. Oh no, oh no, oh no. This guy has got to be joking.

“Intimate?” Is all Keith says, sounding perturbed. His eyes are raking over Kevin, and then flitting over to the scene that comes into focus in front of them.

Tiny, animated birdtilians are in it now, holding hands as they’re hooked up into two separate, white hospital like beds with a tangle of cords attached to them. The cords are mostly stuck to their temples, connected in a glowing ball to each other, and there are dual smiles on their lax, clearly unconscious faces.

Lance gulps. It isn’t exactly a comforting picture, more like something he’d see in a mental hospital or a strange sleep study.

“You’re not going to like...do something weird to our thoughts, are you?” He speaks up, feeling strangely woozy, “I’m not sure I like the idea of you poking around in my noggin biz, dude. That’s where all my best stuff happens! My mind is a magnificent thing, and I am not about to lose that.”

“Yeah,” Keith agrees, touching his head uncertainly, “How do we know you aren’t going to mess with them?”

Kevin flashes a ghostly smile before he scrambles the scene. It reforms into the same two figures, still unconscious, but with head gear on that looks suspiciously like the tools they use for the mind meld exercise. It’s a lot less scary than all the wires and hospital beds, they simply look peaceful as they sit in meditative positions, the headgear pulsing a soft blue as bubbles appear over their heads. A racing track of tiny fake memories over tiny fake people.

“You need not worry,” Kevin assures them, “We have a strict moral code and law that we—or at least _I_ —adhere to.”

Lance tries to interject, his mouth suddenly all too-dry, but Kevin’s speaking a mile a minute now, pushing out explanation after explanation. He clamps his jaw shut, slightly paranoid that Kevin may already be intruding upon his mind. Whatever drug is still racing through his veins is making him pretty chill and compliant regardless, despite the foreboding shadow that lies below that implication. Kevin’s words are sinking into him and turning into quick understanding at a rate he’s not entirely sure is how he processes information normally.

“It’s part of the practice, and manipulating memories does not come without consequence to the melder. Melding isn’t about distorting or destroying memories for any sort of gain, though we do have the power to do that.”

The tiny, fake people open their eyes, their memories pop out of existence. They both break into wide smiles when they see each other, and Keith gives a derisive snort when they link hands again.

Lance only flushes, and sinks into the plush of the cushion. Talk about awkward. As if he and Keith would ever _willingly_ smile that fondly at each other.

“It’s about opening up paths of understanding between others who have difficulty forming bonds or empathizing with each other. It’s therapeutic in nature, nothing more, nothing less.”

The tiny, fake birdtilians whip around their heads, the cloud of the scene floating and inching to fill most of the room. Other scenes flash by, things so fast Lance can only catch a blur of meaning behind them: A tiny person crying, the other tiny person throwing tiny furniture in a miniscule fit of rage. The two, reunited, frolicking side by side in some sort of field. Both of them physically fighting each other, another where they appear to be tangled up within one another’s arms in an embrace. Swirling into indistinguishable colors and light, one of the figures appears to be holding a rifle, the other, a large knife.

Before Lance can properly squint at that one, it’s gone.

“Besides, I’m not the one doing the poking so much as you two who will be.”

Kevin slices his tail like a dagger through the reel of images, and they dissipate, leaving behind nothing but the thought of whether what they just saw was even real or not. Lance blinks, rubs his eyes. He’s disoriented, but still feeling, deep down, unbothered by it all.

So Keith gets to see his memories. That’s a thing that’s going to happen. His heart is racing, jumpy. His body’s clearly reacting, but everything is a calm, over-arching fog of _Oh, well. Let it be, Lance._

“Which brings me to the matter at hand—there are two methods we can start with, depending on how comfortable you are with the options and with each other.”

“I’m _not_ comfortable with Keith,” Lance blurts against his better judgment. He’s acutely aware of Keith turning sharply, eyes hot on him. “He’s...he’s not a comfortable person. Nope, I definitely don’t find him comfy at all.”

There’s a disgruntled half-laugh, half-grunt from Keith. Maybe he finds that particular comment as amusing as he is irritated by it, since Lance imagines everything Keith feels probably derives from some kind of anger, in the end.

His palms are starting to feel unbearably warm, itchy almost, from the scrutiny of them both. He’s trying with all of his might to keep his mind from slipping back to memories of that pretty, over-relaxed smile, that hot hand inching up his shirt.

There’s no telling how much Kevin can sense, how much he might already know. If his rogue apprentice could read just that much about them in so little time without even doing anything, there’s no telling what could be going on here anymore.

“Really now? Interesting.” Kevin’s feathers fluff up as if in surprise. Stupid Kevin. Like he knows anything. “Keith? Any thoughts on that?”

“I have a few,” Keith replies with a shrug and twirl of his blade between his fingers, which he uses to indirectly reflect some of the blue light right into Lance’s eyes, “But I’d say my top one right now is that Lance is an asshole.”

“I see, I see.”

Kevin nods several times, his head bobbing as if he’s only half-listening, as if that’s a perfectly acceptable response for Keith to say about someone. The air notebook is conjured back up, and with his tail he pokes and prods at the buttons while Lance and Keith share worried glances.

Well, mostly worried glances. The other part of it is that Keith is flipping him off, and Lance is sticking his tongue out at him.

The notebook refolds itself, and Kevin pushes himself up from the chair with a grunt. Clapping his hands together, with his mouth curling into a cock-eyed smile, he tells them,

“Invasive submersion it is, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t have any good excuses for why this is so late, so I’m gonna pull a drugged Lance here and just say _It is what it is_. Also, please forgive me.
> 
> A few notes of importance, though! Since I originally started writing this before season two came out, and now that there’s 3 more seasons, I’ve finally figured out that this is taking place sometime in the downtime of season 2. After most of it, but before their big fight with Zarkon and Shiro’s disappearance. I felt like that was a good place to add progression to Keith and Lance’s relationship.
> 
> More about memory melding and how it’s different from the mind meld will be addressed by the next chapter. At first I wasn’t sure how to get past this small world-building bridge, but with the help of the continued encouraging comments and support from you all, I gained some new motivation. I was honestly surprised to see so many still finding this story and enjoying it, so thank you for that. I hope you’ll enjoy my strange characters and are ready for a wild, gay ride from here on out. 
> 
> Tune in next time to find out the answer to the age old question, “Is being thrust directly into your SO’s awkward memories romantic?”


	7. What Happiness Felt Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance blinks. It’s uncertainty. The great Keith Kogane, is uncertain.

Without any other explanation, Kevin ushers them from the room and around to one of the twisting, branched-off hallways. It’s basically the same as the original one, weird glowing parchments and disturbing, flowing wisps of smoke curling about the ceiling. Same old, same old. Nothing new considering they’ve already been through plenty of crazy shit like this. There isn't anything left to do but simply adapt as he always does, and that’s something Lance knows he’s exceedingly good at. It shouldn’t be too hard. Just a little memory swapping here and there, and hopefully, he and Keith will be good as new. There’s nothing too scary or too embarrassing he sees the need to hide in his thoughts.

But then again, there is—

“So basically,” Lance says slowly, tongue still feeling a bit thick and sandpapery in his mouth. Idle conversation should take his mind off of things like _that_. “This is like some weird form of couple’s therapy?”

Kevin looks to Lance uncomprehendingly, glasses slipping further down the narrow bridge of his beak. His hands are laced primly together, out in front of him, as he walks. “I guess? I don’t know what the quiznak that is, but uh. Sure.”

“Ugh, Lance.” Keith pauses in his mute shuffling nearby. “Why the hell did you have to say it like that?”

Lance shrugs. “It’s what it reminded me of. Don’t judge. I’m about to share my memoryscape with you, you should be nicer to me, darling.”

Keith spins around fast enough that Lance swears he gets some sort of whiplash. He draws close, until his forehead is touching Lance’s. Oh, yeah, and that’s definitely a knife being pointed at his chest.

“How about I share all the memories I have of me imagining doing bodily harm to you first?” Keith hisses, eyes ablaze with annoyance. It’s prettier than it has any right to be.

When Keith jabs a finger into his chest, Lance still can’t help but laugh. “Seriously, stop with the names.”

“Okay, _honey pie_ ,” Lance whispers out of spite, because who does Keith think he is, commanding him what to do? It’s just like in the team building exercise.

He always wants to try and top him.

 _Try and top him_. That line is probably going to come back to haunt him eventually, but Lance doesn’t care. It’s the truth, even if it can be construed in a less than wholesome way.

Keith just has his fingers slipping into his chest plate and is tugging Lance forward when Kevin intervenes, without so much as a glance back. There’s a wave of power, like an electromagnetic field has just rolled by and cut between them. They’re forced forward and back harshly, hitting their heads and then snapping apart like a pair of ornery rubber bands. Lance’s forehead instantly is throbbing, and Keith is groaning as he rubs his stomach, looking less than pleased by whatever that was. Lance feels colder than he was before, and there’s an unpleasant lingering emotion of anxiety replacing all the nice feelings that the drug had worked into his bloodstream.

It’s whatever. The thing was probably going to start wearing off soon, anyway.

“Are you two always this obstinate?” Kevin says icily with a click of his tongue, continuing to walk as if he didn’t just do some crazy alien voodoo on them. “This isn’t becoming for paladins of Voltron at all. I’m honestly surprised Coran has waited this long to send you, this is abhorrent behavior.”

It doesn’t take much to get Keith to be self-conscious, Lance notices, especially when being redirected by those he puts into a place of high respect. He glances at Lance before focusing back in front of him, abashed enough to fall into silence. The knife is put away. It doesn’t make a reappearance again.

They all resume walking, the corridor shifting endlessly, wavier and more winding the deeper they go down it. It seems to take hours for them to get to their destination, and Lance still doesn’t understand how even with all this super-technology, aliens are always doing inconvenient things like this when they could use said technology for making his life easier. It’s just like the pods that can’t clean themselves. It really wouldn’t have killed these Munninians to add a quicker and less stereotypical sci-fi transportation system. This corridor is going on forever, and Lance is bored out of his mind. Keith’s never been one who’s good for small talk, so what else is he supposed to do?

He watches the weirdly proud way Kevin holds himself, how the sash glistens and folds against his robes with every confident step he makes. It only takes a moment for Lance to decide to open his mouth again. “Hey Kevin, how do you know Coran, anyway?”

The clenching of Keith’s hands shows his response to what he thinks about that. _Good_ , Lance thinks, smirking. If he’s that annoyed by his voice, then he sees no reason to be quiet ever again. Kevin appears mildly caught off-guard by his question, his step tripping up as they turn yet another corner. “We were very close colleagues,” he admits after a beat, a dreamlike expression unfolding over his face. His feathers slip back to relaxed, his hands unclasp themselves to gesture gently in front of him.

“Munnin has had a strong alliance with Altea since the dawn of time. During the construction of Voltron, we worked together often. I, and a few other melders, were responsible for creating the lion’s melding abilities and their telepathic bonds with their pilots, as well as designed a few instruments the Alteans used as training devices for the original paladins.”

Keith looks over in interest at that. “The mind-meld?” He asks, tilting his head to Kevin.

Kevin nods steadily in confirmation, placing a hand underneath his chin as if in deep thought. “Yes, I believe that was one of them. You know, I assumed when I heard about the extinction of Altea, that we had lost our good friends forever.” Kevin shakes his head, as if the very memory is too painful to agree with. “Our period of mourning was one of great pain, but also one of enlightenment. We closed off our universal trade to focus more on our abilities and of building upon our technology. We swore to ourselves we would use these new things to finally defeat the Galra once and for all, when the time came for it.”

Kevin’s words are calming and soothing, bouncing off the walls in a way that helps Lance’s nerves resettle. It’s better having something to focus on. The silence was really too much for him.

“We were most relieved to hear when Voltron made its return. Since then, we have been working with many rebel efforts in importing blacklisted trading materials that were banned by the Galra.”

The explanation is left at that, because they are finally drawing towards a large wooden door with gold, foreign inscriptions racing across it. Lance almost cries in the relief that brings.

“By the way, when you inevitably meet my assistant, he will most likely try and con you out of some GAC,” Kevin warns them, stepping past the threshold of the doorway. “Tell him kindly to stick those presumptions right up his ass, your return and helping us fight the Galra is all the payment we will be needing.”

Lance is about to reveal to him that they don’t have any money anyway, when the words get stuck and subsequently scrambled inside his throat.

Within the room, isn’t a room at all.

It’s an abyss. Where a floor should rightfully be, he’s staring off a cliff into some dark, endless tunnel embedded into the ground. There’s a scary amount of sharp rocks, a few deep ravines circling far, far below them somehow.

“What the cheese, man?!” Lance yelps, jumping back and landing rather unfortunately into Keith’s arms, which he finds were already outstretched to keep him from tumbling right through it all.

It’s a weird, slow-motion sort of thing. Keith stumbles, but his arms end up scooping Lance up firmly underneath his thighs and back, all while Lance’s feet and arms move wildly in panic, like a cat desperately trying to land upright—but in reverse.

And shit, Keith—Keith is _crazy_ strong. Reliable, too, able to spring into action at a moment’s notice, if the trust fall into his arms was any indication. Lance can feel the flex, the strain of his muscles even through their suits. He can smell his breath hot on his cheeks, different from the usual after-sleep bitterness it holds whenever they wake up. He isn’t sure if he’s capable of being angry about almost falling into a bottomless pit, or if he should be impressed by Keith’s always lightning-quick reflexes. Not knowing how to react,  Lance whimpers pitifully while clutching onto Keith’s shoulders, trying to keep his breakfast from lurching further up his throat.

“Whoops. Forgot to turn off that last memory imprint,” Kevin waves his fingers into the air, only to backhand a large button on the wall beside him. “Last guy was a cliff diver, you know how it is.”

The scene stutters and shifts, jagged rock edges falling away and evening into smooth, plushy couches, the black abyss reforming into the similar translucent light from the hallway. A room comes into focus, all gleaming, checkered tile and—not much else. Lance wants nothing more in that moment than to give Kevin a piece of his mind, tell him that _Hell no, they don’t ‘know how it is’,_ when Keith abruptly drops him. Hitting the newly conjured tile floor with an unsightly _thud,_ Lance rattles off another shriek.

“I, um,” Keith clears his throat, refusing to meet his eyes as he comes into a blurry focus above him, “Sorry.”

Lance reluctantly follows them in, rubbing at his sore hip and glaring at the floor as he goes. Who knows when it might open up beneath him and swallow him whole.

After seating them on the couch, which isn’t nearly as soft as Lance was expecting, Kevin explains that the room they’re in is one in which he can fully immerse them into any memory. It’s a little hard for Lance to wrap his head around at first—there’s a shoddy job done explaining the _how_ and _why_ of being able to do this. They're just given the basics on what to expect.

And apparently what to expect, is that either he or Keith need to allow the other to fully be plunged into the other’s mind. That they will all then travel together into ' _The Great Chosen One’_ ’s memoryscape. Scary in theory, and probably even scarier in practice.

Great. Perfect.

Munnin is quickly growing to be his most favorite planet, surely.

“We will not always be using this method, but I feel for the first session, it will be the most startling to you both, and therefore, more effective,” Kevin finishes with. “Any last questions before we start?”

Lance has about a million. But he can’t think of any that will be easy to ask, or ones he’ll even likely get answers to. On the cushion next to him, Keith is irritatingly jittery, having squirmed and sat there looking more and more sullen than normal during the entirety of Kevin’s speech. It’s annoying, and this whole thing is annoying, so Lance holds his tongue of his thoughts, shakes his head at the same time Keith does.

That’s a bridge to cross at another time. He’s starting to get _hungry_ , for chrissakes.

“So?” Kevin spreads his arms, grinning. The light hits against his glasses in a way too close for comfort to how they often hit Pidge’s when she’s about to do something particularly mischievous. “Whose memoryscape will we be rummaging around in today, then?”

There’s a moment where Lance studies Keith, wondering what he’s been thinking about all this. As usual, it’s hard to read him outside of that weird, nervous shifting. Not much emotion is showing on his face, until his eyes flit away, downcast to the floor.

Lance blinks. It’s uncertainty. The great Keith Kogane, is uncertain.

And then—

“I’d rather not,” Keith decides on with finality, as if he’s been ready for that answer from the start of all this explanation. Kevin nods, and that seems to be the end of that. No interrogation, just two pairs of eyes silently turning towards him.

Leaning back against the couch, Lance smiles, flashing his teeth in victory. “Why?” He goads Keith, “You scared again?”

“No.” Keith’s brows furrow. The lines of his mouth are turned into something akin to a grimace. “I’d just...rather not.”

In all honesty, Lance thinks, it seems too good of an answer to be true. What an unexpected opportunity. Something that Keith has the ability to do first, but doesn’t take the chance to one-up him so he can throw it in his face later? Well, then. _Lance_ has nothing to hide. He can do this, no problem—and he’s not afraid like Keith, both to take that chance, and to boast about it immediately. Jabbing a thumb to his chest, he says, “Well, _I’m_ not afraid.”

The cushion shakes with barely contained tension. Keith crosses his arms, hissing, “I said I wasn’t afraid, I just don’t want to!”

Lance holds his hands out in mock surrender, but Keith isn't having it. “And if you’re that confident, Lance, what’s the big deal? Just shut up and do it, if you’re supposedly so much braver than me.”

He is. He is much, _much_ braver than Keith. More _confident_ than Keith will _ever_ be, Lance knows this for certain.

“Fine. I will,” Lance replies with the utmost animosity, while Kevin’s grin grows wider and wider. Like the Cheshire cat, his mouth being the last thing he can make out as they’re plunged into darkness.

Without warning, the couch begins to shake and warp.

And the room sizzles out again into space.

 

* * *

 

The floor is dropping beneath them, and so does Keith’s stomach and legs along with it.

His head is spinning, a swirl of indistinguishable color and light taking them under quickly before he can even blink. His limbs feel full of lead. Flailing his weighted arms out, there’s nothing but air and the urgent hope that his feet will soon touch solid ground again. Images are flying past him faster than he can comprehend. What Keith can make out, only confuses him more, only increases his panic in trying to understand just what is going on.

Hospitals, cribs. Baby food and toy trucks. Birthday cakes, a gangly little boy with two missing front teeth, biking on a boardwalk with a group of kids. Fireworks over a pier.

There’s a large family sitting, eating dinner together. Children fighting, playing, laughing, crying. What appears to be a surfing contest. The pitch black of a night sky, full of twinkling and falling stars above the backdrop of the ocean. A small bedroom, fixed with glowing stars on the ceiling and posters of spaceships, where the same boy—now slightly older—is playing with a rocket. A girl laughing while rejecting a bouquet of flowers. Some high school library. Parties with teenagers drinking and dancing, one in which an awkward Lance with braces and a face full of acne, is attracting quite a bit of attention as he riles up a drunken crowd.

A Garrison uniform, pressed and folded neatly in that same small bedroom next to an acceptance letter. There’s the brief flash of a stage with Shiro on it—the Galaxy Garrison cadet enrollment ceremony—which Keith recognizes immediately, because he was _there_ for that. The next thing he sees is a strange glimpse at the back of his own head in a classroom. More shots of him walking around with Shiro in their Garrison uniforms. He and Lance arguing outside of a simulation run. Lance being yelled at by Iverson.

The sign of some smoky, run down bar. Hunk with a weird haircut, talking animatedly. One of the dorm rooms of the Garrison, with a messy bunk where Lance is moping under a mountain of blankets. Pidge smacking Lance with a textbook.

His own desert shack. Earth a small speck in the distance of space.

The images phase in and out, a tidal wave of unfamiliar memories, unfamiliar faces, and new information against a racing track of film featuring their time on the ship.

Coran in the control room, searching something on a star map while Lance is pouting on the floor. Voltron forming. Blue looking down on him. A vision of Allura with a sickening amount of hearts over her head. That one time he and Lance were forced to do everyone’s chores together for a week because they fought over the com system. Lance narrating, yet again over the com system, his every waking move until Keith had punched him. Rover hovering while Pidge is playing some sort of game on a screen with Lance in her room.

There's him again, reaching down to help Lance up when he was injured, during their one bonding moment. Allura and Lance head-to-head in a goo eating competition from a few months ago, the mice holding score signs indicating Lance’s shameful failure. A close up of his panicked face as he saved Lance from the airlock before he got sucked out into space. Lance perched on Shiro’s shoulders, playing that stupid chicken game with Pidge—on top of Hunk’s shoulders—in that dumb Altean pool.

That awful elevator where they’d gotten stuck.

Hunk and Lance dancing, the mice judging them again, which Keith wasn’t there for. Shiro shaking his head and laughing. More stuff Keith doesn’t remember seeing. Missions Lance was on without him. Pidge winning at poker, Allura lifting Hunk effortlessly over her head while Coran, Pidge, and Lance whistle and cheer. A mermaid giving Lance a cheek kiss.

It ends with something shakier—

Keith finds himself, startlingly, staring at his own sleeping face before it all finally disperses.

Gravity claims him, eventually. It doesn’t hurt as bad as he was anticipating, feels more like warm hands cradling him slowly into the new earth that comes into existence underneath his feet. When Keith does take that first tentative blink, the sight that meets him is a far cry from tiled rooms with couches.

Where the couch once was, curiously enough, is a vast rolling blue ocean. Checkered tile has petered out into thousands upon thousands of tiny grains of sand. There’s seashells scattered about, glistening amidst the many feet that come to crash over top of them. Tons of people are around him suddenly, laughing and playing everywhere. Swimming in the lazily crashing waves. Skimming over the low tide of the shore on brightly colored boards.

It can’t be real, but Keith can feel the obvious warmth of a bright sun, playing against the exposed skin of his face. The air is thick with humidity, with the smell of frying foods and music lilting in racing beats. Keith drops into a squat, awestruck, slipping his fingers into the sand and grunting in surprise when the grains trickle out between his fingers. They’re rough, hot, and hold their weight. Upon closer inspection, though, they’re almost _too_ perfect—each grain appears to be the same shape and size.

Real, but distinctly unreal.

“Where in the world…” He starts to ask, but stops when he spots Lance in the crowd, a few feet away from him.

Lance’s eyes are widened farther than he’s ever seen, his mouth a growing mimic into a grin that Keith isn’t very familiar with. It’s not the sort of grin Lance usually gives—snarky and self-satisfied, or even the proud one he gets when he knows he’s pulled one over on him achievement-wise. It’s not the kind when he’s gloating, when he’s flirting poorly, or when he’s picking at Hunk or Pidge to give details about what Allura thinks of him.

It’s the kind he gets in the rare times he talks about his family, about his home. The melancholic one Keith doesn’t understand at all, and that he’s only seen once before, when he accidentally walked in on a conversation Lance was having with Hunk one day, in which they were speaking of the things they missed on Earth. His entire features are softening, eyes glassy and turned towards the sea. The palm of his hand is lifting to his gaping mouth. There’s a fairly strong breeze, and Keith watches the way it lifts the ends of Lance’s hair, picking up as he starts walking, almost as if in a trance, to where water meets land.

To see Lance this way, clearly torn between something that looks about as happy as it is sad, has Keith drawing in a sharp breath. Something weird pulls within his chest. Something unidentifiable, but deep, and heavy with emotion. Kevin is nowhere in sight, at first. Keith gives up on trying to spot him from the crowd, figuring if a strange alien can’t be seen through the boisterous throng of humans, that it’s only him and Lance. The people don’t pay them any attention. When one runs into him, it goes right through his body, like a ghost.

Keith shudders, despite it not feeling like much of anything. This is seriously starting to creep him out.

He strides up behind Lance, the only option he really has to figure out what this is, and how it’s going to help them. With a scratch of his head, Keith squints towards the cheery, cloudless sky, shivering despite the false heat. He’s never seen a place so beautiful, with water that clean and clear, reflecting such vivid hues from the things around them. He didn’t know a place like this could exist on Earth, with people this happy and carefree. With tropical trees that stretch far above them, dwarfing them in their shadows and displaying wide palm leaves, some bearing fruit he’s only seen in movies.

In fact, he’s never been to an actual beach at all.

Keith stands, and stares with Lance. Stares and stares.  “...Where the Hell did you take us, Lance?”

Lance jumps in surprise, cursing and pressing his palm to his chest. Keith feels bad about sneaking up on him, if only for a second.

“Varadero Beach, duh,” Lance tells him when he regains composure, whipping his head around to stick his tongue out at him. He’s flinging off his sandals in no time, rolling up his sweatpants, which, wait—

It’s then that Keith glances down, at himself and at Lance. In nothing short of shock at the new wardrobe they both have on. He wants to kick sand into Lance’s face.

He’s somehow wearing a fucking Hawaiian patterned shirt.

“Gross.” Keith holds out the edges of the ugly shirt by the tips of his fingers, afraid of the disease it might contain. “Come on, what is this?”

“My memory, my rules,” Lance sing-songs shrilly, annoyingly, “And the first rule is, you either wear the beach gear, or take it off.”

He offers the smuggest of smirks before tugging off the loose, striped tank top he has on, and barrels towards the water.

Keith holds his head against his hand. As nice as this place is, he’s confused and uncomfortable, by the heat and other...stranger things. There’s something tight and sticking awkwardly to his thighs with sweat. He finds that it’s the fault of weird spandex shorts, clinging over his legs, falling barely past his groin. They’re bright yellow, and clashing almost angrily with his mismatched shirt.

Hell if he’s going to just start stripping like a freak, but the alternative of wearing this stressful outfit makes a hard bargain.

“But _you’re_ not wearing short-shorts and ugly vacation...things,” Keith calls to his quickly retreating back, bounding after him in frustration. “Lance!”

Lance doesn’t turn back or stop. “ _I'm_ not the tourist, now am I?”

Why in the world Lance wants to torture him like this, Keith will probably never know, or understand. All he knows, is that his urge to get revenge is greater than his need to keep from tearing himself loose from the shackles of these awful clothes.

“Oh, what the fuck.” Keith struggles with removing his shirt, ripping the buttons clean off and slipping it past his shoulders, only to have it reform right back over his chest. The shorts are giving the same weird resistance. “They won’t come off!”

Lance’s laughter is loud somehow through the din of people bustling about. “Guess I lied. It’s definitely funnier with them on.”

Keith scoops a handful of wet sand along the way, squishing his fingers into the relief of their coolness for a moment, before furiously heaping it in Lance’s direction. It misses, of course, because Lance is already wading in the water and Keith has never been very good at long range.

Left with no other choice, he attacks. Gets behind Lance and pushes him straight into a wave, crashing down on top of him in a similar manner. Lance struggles beneath him, resurfacing from the water with an arch of his back and a heavy gasp of breath. He elbows Keith _hard_ , so that he falls onto his ass with a wet smack into the shore.

Keith splashes him in retaliation as soon as Lance turns around, kicking at the shallow water pulling in and out underneath them. The second Lance pounces on him, hands curling tight around his wrists and locking him on his back, he immediately goes still.

Keith looks at him questioningly, watching the whip of his hair, the gentle flush from the heat spreading against his cheeks. Lingering over the spattering of freckles that he finds don’t actually stop at Lance’s shoulders like he assumed, but rather trickle across his broad chest into a fine pattern for awhile. He’s surprisingly leanly muscled and toned. Seeing Lance up close and personal like this while he’s shirtless is a whole different ballpark than seeing it from a distance like he has in the past. They’re not in a position much different from the one back in Lance’s bedroom from the other night, and that strange swirl of uncomfortable heat sits low in Keith’s stomach.

Just like that, it’s weird again. Thankfully, Lance lets his arms go.

Puffing out his cheeks, he relents, “I guess I can change... _those_.”

Keith doesn’t understand, until the tacky spandex is gone, replaced by loose swim trunks like the ones they have back on the ship.

“There. Better?”

“Much.” Keith sighs now that his balls don’t feel like they’re being crushed in a vice grip of fabric. He backs away from Lance, giving one last splash for good measure. “Jerk.”

They ease themselves back to where the water is brushing lightly against their bare feet, tickling over Keith's toes. The roar of the ocean is louder than he's ever imagined, and it's comparable to the small feeling he gets whenever he's free falling into space. Lance isn’t soaked from being submerged like he should be, his pants dry and unnervingly clean of any dirt, hair fluffy and continuously windswept. Keith doesn’t feel wet either, despite the cool touch the water leaves on his skin. He wishes he’d had the forewarning to have brought a hair tie, as thick strands of his bangs keep getting tangled between his lips.

Poking at a conch shell that’s washed up, Keith asks, “How did you do that, anyway?”

Lance draws one finger into the sand, looping an aimless pattern into it and watching as it fills with water. Shrugs his shoulders to his ears. “Dunno. Just thought about it.”

Keith nudges him with his elbow. “Care to give me something to pull my hair back with, then? This wind is driving me nuts.”

“Maybe.”

Lance levels him a look, before tipping his chin with a haughty sniff, and a girl’s pink scrunchie—obviously from the 90’s—appears around Keith’s wrist. Whatever. A hair tie is a hair tie. He gathers his hair up into a bundle, pulling it away from his endlessly sweating neck, and bunches it up messily into a low ponytail. Yeah, much, much better.

“Hey, where did you say we are again?” Keith’s curious by the name he can’t quite remember, his mind clearing now that he’s no longer uncomfortable. He’s starting to really enjoy it all, actually. “Vara-what-o?”

“Vara _dero_ ,” Lance snaps, then says more coolly, “Cuba, of course.” That bitter edge eases out, and there’s a waver to his next whispered utterance of, “Home, you know. _My_ home.”

And there’s that mysterious grin again. Sad, yet happy. Longing. Un-Lance-like.

They sit for awhile like that, side-by-side, watching the sun begin to set over the calming water. The waves are rounder, less harsh, as the tide pulls up. It’s peaceful. Breathtakingly, heart-stoppingly, beautiful. Maybe not as quiet as Keith prefers, but it’s undeniably lovely in many other ways. He’s even getting used to the incessant squawking of birds and children screaming.

Keith leans back on the palms of his hands, sighing, “It’s nice.”

A gross understatement, really, but he’s always been a man of few words with difficulty properly expressing his true feelings. Keith gets the sense that Lance understands what he means regardless as he gets the peek of a bright smile before it’s hidden away from him. Then Lance is curling forward more, his back hunching as he clasps his arms around his knees, lays his chin upon them.

“Thanks,” he replies quietly, after a thoughtful silence.

“I see. So the layout of your home is the general map of your memoryscape. What a wonderful place, Blue one.”

They both jump as the third voice interrupts their moment. Keith should have been expecting it, but even he can admit that he forgot Kevin was here just as much as Lance seems to have. He’s standing behind them, looking out into the sunset, robes whipping mystically about. The beach falls quiet, the people phase out slowly, and then disappear entirely. Lance looks mournfully around, blinking, his shirt reforming over his chest, now with an added knit cardigan. He hugs it tight around him.

Kevin’s robes poof out of existence, replaced by an equally as atrocious Hawaiian shirt and swim shorts that rival in ugliness with the pair Keith has on.

“Traditional garb of my people.” Lance snickers. Keith can’t help but snort a laugh with him, because this is all so absurd. “Sorry, but it’s the rules here that you gotta. Otherwise, it’s rude.”

Kevin’s feathers ruffle with the wind, inspecting the change in wardrobe with interest. Not judgmental, merely giving it a once-over. He shrugs. “Fair enough.”

Lance springs to his feet, stretching to the sky and carding hurried fingers through his unruly hair. “So? What do we do next?” He’s cracking his knuckles, grinning and looking prepared to do just about anything.

Keith rises much more slowly, feeling lazier than usual. It felt nice to relax, and he’s a little disappointed to be reminded that they came here to do some serious bonding work.

“We are in full immersion,” Kevin reiterates from his explanation earlier, “Consider this a place where you can have free range over what you would like to show or share with us. No memories will be pried up that you do not want to reveal. However, the more open and honest you are emotionally, the easier this will be for moving things along between you two.”

“Pfft, no problem,” Lance gloats, waving his hand flippantly, “That sounds easy enough.”

Kevin claps his hands together, and seats himself down on some newly conjured fold-out beach chair, tucking his tail neatly behind him. He pulls down the pair of sunglasses that Lance gave him over his eyes. “Great, then.” He pats the spot next to him, motioning for Keith to sit as well. Keith drops back down in an instant, hoping he can keep his heavy eyelids from closing. “Since there are no issues, your first assignment is a simple happy memory.”

“Um, sure.” Lance looks more unsure than before, and it gives Keith some weird sort of satisfaction that he’s dropping down a bit from this painful display of false hubris. “Where should I start?”

“Wherever you desire. It can be any happy memory that reveals more about who you are and where you’ve been in life. If you want to stop, you can ask at anytime, and we will return to the room.”

Lance puts his hand to his chin, thoughtfully, before he snaps his fingers and tells them he knows exactly where to start. The scene of the beach remains, but people begin to pop back up, one by one. Kids, the elderly, young couples, dogs, teenagers. People of all shapes and sizes, of various ethnicities. Keith can pick up a few different languages they’re speaking that he doesn’t completely understand, but the sounds warp somehow into something he can comprehend.

Parents, encouraging their children. Friends, talking about the newest drama at school. Children, teasing and laughing. Couples, telling each other how much they love one another.

There’s a buzz of cheering coming from the shore. A few groups of people are all lined up on it, eyes to the water, intent on whatever is happening in front of them. There’s a large banner that Keith hears crinkling behind him, stretched across the sand like a volleyball net. The words are in Spanish, so he can’t make them out, but there’s a number twelve next to them. It’s there, within the softly turning waves, that many people are in the water with surfboards. Adults and older teens paired with young kids, probably no older than elementary school aged, Keith guesses.

Now that he’s got a better view and more time to study his surroundings, Keith realizes that the young boy he saw in the various images earlier was actually Lance. He doesn’t look too much different outside the fact that naturally he’s smaller with a round, boyish face. He’s lankier than ever, as if he won’t grow into his awkwardly long legs until at least ten years later. His hair is a little longer, shaped into some bad shaggy bowl cut, and there’s a few of his teeth missing when he opens his mouth to say something to the older boy helping him balance on his board.

The older boy seems familiar, looking like maybe an alternate future version of Lance, were he to have grown up stockier and more built. And able to grow actual facial hair, judging by the goatee.

“That’s one of my brothers,” Lance explains, smiling softly, “He’s giving me my first surfing lessons. It’s a family event they have during the spring. Pretty cool, right?” He puts one hand on his hip, the other to his forehead to block the sun as he squints to watch himself. “I think I’m...seven? It was a great day for it, huh? Waves were...perfect.”

Keith doesn’t respond, observing with a small amount of jealousy broiling within his chest at the happy twin smiles they both have, at the way Lance’s brother is patient even as Lance falls a few times from fooling around too much and not paying attention to instructions.

“Yeah.” Lance begins dropping to sit next to Keith, his mouth twitching down the slightest bit. “I was happy.”

His voice is growing quieter and quieter. A whistle sounds, and little Lance and his brother paddle excitedly to the shore. When they get there, one of the groups of people—bearing various features similar to Lance’s—run to meet him. A short, older woman with a kind smile and thick, curly brown hair gathers Lance in her welcoming arms. She’s cooing praises into his ear. Other children are patting him on the back.

Lance exhales audibly. Keith watches as his hands curl into tight, anxious fists. “This was...what happiness felt like.”

The scene swirls into darkness gradually. The sky changing to black, the people poofing out of existence, until there is only little Lance and his family, with the woman—who Keith guesses is probably his mother—still hugging him in the sand. Then his brother swoops in, heaving Lance onto his shoulders, and they’re both laughing as he breaks into a run.

Keith looks pityingly at Lance, noting the crestfallen drop in his face. He immediately feels guilty for that unexpected twinge of jealousy.

Lance is clearly upset now. He’s clearly upset, and Keith has absolutely no idea what to do about it.

“I’m sorry,” Lance whispers to them with his lower lip trembling, and bows his head. “I can’t do this anymore.”   

Kevin is true to his word. They’re lifted up, the opposite of sensation that Keith felt on his way down, feeling light and floating as if he’s a cloud bumbling along aimlessly in the sky.

It’s just him and the sky.

Him and the sky, and the lingering view of Lance’s face crumbling into pieces.

 

* * *

 

The walk back down that corridor is quiet. Their trip up to the waiting pod-ship is quiet. Their flight away from Munnin is terribly, horribly, quiet.

Quiet in a way that Keith suddenly hates for once.

Lance lets Keith pilot without a peep, and nothing has ever been more wrong. When they get back to the castle, he mutters to the others who welcome their return that he’s not hungry and that he’s off to take a shower.

There’s a small moment where Keith is able to lock his gaze, and Lance bobs his head in a sad nod of recognition before excusing himself. At dinner, Keith can’t focus much on eating, his head too full of thoughts of the day and all these new feelings crashing over him like the waves at Varadero. Shiro spends a lot of time shooting him questioning looks across the table, coupled with glances towards Lance’s empty seat.

He’s not the only one. Hunk in particular is very concerned, grilling Allura for a while about the possibilities of any of them being able to pick up some sort of space sickness, and offers to bring food to Lance’s room later. Pidge mentions that it’s too quiet. Coran seems to know at some level what might be up, so he’s the only one who doesn’t say anything.

Lance missing a meal—especially after a mission—yeah, it’s super weird, Keith agrees about ten times as it’s brought up for discussion. If Keith didn’t feel so bad for him, he’d almost like to be annoyed with the way Lance left him here to continuously explain away his absence.

When they disperse for the night, Shiro stops him from leaving with a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says gently, knowingly, brow furrowing in that thoughtful Shiro way, “Is everything alright between you and Lance? Coran said your mission went well, but I haven’t seen him at all since you’ve been back. It’s unusual.”

“I think he’s just tired.” Keith is just as surprised by his quick cover as Shiro appears to be. “There was a lot of traveling on foot where the ship couldn’t go so we could gather samples. He’s probably been off resting somewhere. It was…” He clears his throat, looking away. “...a long day. For both of us.”

Shiro catches onto what he means.

“Alright, I won’t keep you up.” He claps a hand onto Keith’s back briefly, before pulling away. “We’ll see you both in the morning, then. We have another team-building exercise after breakfast, so make sure to get to the training room early if you want to do warm-up with me before everyone gets there.”

Shiro doesn’t press any of it, just leaves and gives the space that he knows Keith needs. Keith is eternally grateful for a friend like him. He’s out of his element here, and he’s still incredibly uncomfortable and wracking his brain for what would be the appropriate thing to do. It probably would have been better had someone like Hunk been there in Lance’s memoryscape, and not him.

Despite not having a family of his own, he can empathize with the feeling of loss Lance must be experiencing being separated from the people he loves. Staring at Shiro’s retreating back, Keith reflects on how that’s something he’s at least extremely familiar with. Then he turns, walking the trek down to the lower level where their bedrooms are, his thoughts jumbling and scrambling inside his head. His presence in Lance's mind probably only made things worse between them, in the end. Still, Keith pauses when he reaches the door of Lance’s bedroom, tempted to knock.

Tempted to crawl into bed with him, and do...what, he’s not sure. Some sort of comforting? Who knows at this point. Keith stretches his hand towards the door, hovering just out of reach of the sensor.

But maybe—

No. He shakes his head, retracts his hand.

That’s a terrible idea. He’s probably the last person Lance wants to see right now.

No, Keith resists the urge, and doesn’t go to Lance’s room. He trudges past Lance’s door and goes to his own bedroom. Prepares himself for a night of fitful sleep as he stares dully at the ceiling, counting the ticks away. Lance has made it clear he wants to be left alone, and Keith completely understands why.

But there is one thing he doesn’t understand as the door to his room slides open during the stillness of the night, shortly after he drifts off into a light sleep.

Because when he opens his eyes, it’s Lance that’s come to him first.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I want to know is, who in this fandom is responsible for editing Varadero’s wiki and adding [Lance as one of the notable people from there](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Varadero#Notable_people).


	8. Anatomy of a Cheek Kiss, part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This makes no sense. What could Lance possibly want or need _from him_?

Keith stares for a long time. Lance stares back, both of them too embarrassed to really breach the silence. Which is making everything worse, because Lance is just hovering above him, shifting nervously from foot to foot, and Keith is still frozen underneath his blankets, blinking.

This changes things. A lot. Him coming to Lance under the pretense of nightmares, well, that’s one thing. But Lance coming to him, unprovoked, purposefully seeking out his company late at night after everyone else has gone to sleep—

That’s another thing altogether.

Keith’s been coming to terms, albeit slowly, with the fact that his need for Lance’s touch stems from a base desire within himself that was never fulfilled over the course of his life. That much is clear. That there’s something about the way Lance’s fingers feel in his hair, how his skin sizzles with electricity and warmth every time it meets any part of Lance.

And he tucks down the other thought that’s been worming its way into his brain as of late, the small voice in his head telling him that deep down, maybe it’s  _not_ just human touch in general he’s craving, but _Lance_ specifically.

Which—

Which has been harder to accept. Too hard to accept completely yet.

Because, he’s been patted on the shoulders and back many times by Shiro. Drawn into various hugs by the others on the team. He’s even had his hair ruffled once or twice by the occasional friend he’s had in the past.

Keith knows, despite those touches being fleeting and mostly unfulfilling, that this isn’t the same. None of those he started growing dependent on, left him craving and wanting more from that person. None of those he spent mulling over outside of the time they were happening.

He knows that there’s something about Lance that’s been getting under his skin in more ways than one recently. Something he hopes will maybe snuff itself out eventually if he just wills it away hard enough. Something he’s chalked up to simple loneliness and limited options to choose from, here in space where he can’t just find some other guy to take this pent up energy out on.

Whatever’s happening between them, it’s undeniably physical, and an attraction that’s snuck up on Keith insidiously, until it’s finally burst into whatever this little arrangement is that they have. A purely _platonic_ arrangement he’s willing himself to continue to keep platonic, not just for his and Lance’s sake, but for the sake of Voltron.

For the sake of getting too attached, too fast. For the sake of unintentionally hurting Lance. For the sake of guarding his own heart, because Lance’s interest in women has been made clear from the very beginning, and him getting carried away could ruin any potential healing between them before it even gets the chance to really start.

Keith gulps. These aren’t good thoughts to be having, when Lance is _right fucking there_. Because this—Lance here, in this moment, seeking out his company.

This makes no sense. What could Lance possibly want or need _from him_?

Maybe he’s just here to go for a midnight snack or something, Keith thinks, eyes still roving over the outline of Lance’s messily tied together paladin robe, anywhere else to try and focus away from those hauntingly sad eyes. It’s a worse place to focus. He’s shirtless underneath it, Keith can tell by the deep sliver of exposed skin where the robe doesn’t quite meet together over his chest.

There he is again, thinking of Lance shirtless above him, the two of them sweaty and tumbling together in the surf. Uncomfortable heat, in his cheeks and stomach.

He can will it away. He can will it away.

“Hey, uh.” Keith pushes back his covers, trying not to feel too self-conscious as he remembers he fell asleep in his day clothes again. He decides to take the plunge first, lest they get stuck staring at each other for the rest of the night. “Did you...how are you feeling? Do you want to, um, get a snack or something together now that everyone’s gone?”

Lance takes that as an apparent invitation to plant himself heavily down on his mattress, causing Keith to raise his legs quickly to keep them from being sat on.

“It’s fine, I ate,” he says morosely, flopping back onto the mattress and curling into a ball on his side, “Hunk brought me some really good stuff, and I felt a lot better once I was full. But I…” Picking at his sheet, Lance spares Keith the smallest of glances. “Still couldn’t sleep.”

This would be the time to offer his bed, maybe. Lance seems to sleep just fine with him. Although, that would suggest a bigger problem that Keith doesn’t want to focus on. Like maybe that Lance enjoys sleeping with him just as much as he does with Lance, and there’s just no way that can be true.

“Do you, uh…”

Keith searches his brain for other options, for what people would usually do in a situation like this. He settles back against his pillows, laying his arms upon his knees, and centers himself.

What does Lance like? There’s a lot of things Keith’s been paying more and more attention to lately. Lance likes to joke. Lance likes to make weird, obscure pop culture references. Lance likes his family and friends, likes to socialize and goof off. Lance likes to be the center of attention, to be pampered with praise, to hear the way his obnoxious voice sounds over the roar of a crowd.

Lance likes to talk.

Keith must be too tired to think properly. Of fucking course, he should have started there. “Do you...want to talk about it?”

Chuckling, Lance curls further into himself, before looking up at him curiously. After studying him more, he pushes up into a sitting position. “Oh. You’re serious.”

Keith grits his teeth. He’s trying to be helpful here. “I’m always serious,” he says, frowning.

“It’s just, you’re always telling me to shut up, so…” Shaking his head, Lance gives him a ghost of a smile, before sliding his back to the wall and leaning against it with his legs stretched towards Keith. Their toes are just barely touching. Keith doesn’t flinch away.

Lance sighs a quick, “Nevermind. I’d like that, Mullet.”

Keith tosses him a pillow, thinking he could maybe use it for his back to be more comfortable. Lance catches it, but clutches it to his chest. Keith flashes Lance the sort of smile he hopes can be construed as understanding. Soft, gentle, warm.

Whatever Lance must see in it, it works.

“So talk,” Keith prompts, nudging Lance with his foot, and the floodgates open up.

“Still can’t believe you’re saying that,” Lance laughs, a small, contained thing. It’s still too quiet for Keith to feel entirely comfortable, to feel like things are really any better than they were.

Then the real bomb is dropped in his lap.

“I was thinking, like, all day since we’ve been back that...I’m never going to see them again, you know?” Lance admits softly, giving the pillow a squeeze and turning over the palms of his hands, staring at them as if looking for some answer within their lines.

“Lance…” Keith takes in a deep breath, reminded of Shiro on the verge of death, reminded of the way he felt the same as he does now. How he wants to reassure someone who’s suffering that everything’s going to be okay, even if it might not be. “Don’t talk like that. Of course you will.”

“Hey, you told me to talk.”

The joke is there, but the humor behind it isn’t. Lance’s eyes are dark and sad, so far from joking that Keith is having trouble picturing him as he usually is. Some light filters in at just the right time, shining upon their glassy outline, accentuating the puffiness and redness around them that Keith couldn’t see before.

“It’s...it’s, you know...I’m just being real, I guess.” Lance hunches his shoulders. “The odds are against us in this. We don’t...we don’t even know if we’ll live to see tomorrow anymore. It’s hard. Hunk and Pidge handle it so well, being away from their families. I don’t know how they do it.”

His face is crumbling again, lip shaking and brows drawing closer together. “I think a lot about how they probably think I’m dead already. How I never even got to say goodbye one last time. My poor mom…”          

Keith’s smile turns down at the edges. He lets his foot brush more fully against Lance’s, lets his body move on autopilot, subtly drawing closer and closer.

“It hurts to even think about, but I can’t…” Voice cracking, Lance lifts his head, directing his gaze straight to Keith. There’s a small tear that’s escaped, rolling down his cheek, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the strain of holding it together. “I can’t stop thinking about it. I just want them to know I’m safe, even though I’m probably really not. At least then they wouldn’t be upset or worry.”

Keith’s panicking, yeah, definitely panicking. Lance is probably close to breaking down, and Keith’s moving before he can think better of it, because that’s—that’s something he really, really doesn’t want to see. Lance being upset is startling, and at the very least, it’s not a good look for someone as happy and carefree as he is.

This is a strange idea, and most likely going to be awkward, but Keith manages it. He crawls the rest of the way across the bed and gathers Lance tentatively in his arms, letting him lay his chin into the crook of his neck. Rubbing his back in soothing, circling motions as Lance falls apart, in a way Keith remembers someone once doing to him when he was very little, in a memory too far gone and buried he’s surprised he can still replicate it.

It’s a fairly quiet cry, soft hiccuping here and there as Lance sniffles every so often. He’s likely embarrassed about it, but he doesn’t pull away. He stays vulnerable within his arms, wrapping his own tight around him after awhile of Keith doing most of the holding and consoling. That’s when Keith tenses, unsure what his hands should continue doing when he can feel Lance’s fingers gripping into his back, suddenly all too aware of their position.

Lance must feel the way his muscles seize up, because he backs off him, face downcast to the sheets. Wiping his sleeve across his eyes, Keith can hear a small, pitiful, “My bad.”

Keith reassures him that it’s fine, and gives Lance a moment to gather himself.

Following how he struggles to hide the rest of his lingering tears with his hands and sleeves, Keith knows he needs to tell him _something_ helpful. After Lance calms some more, he manages to find the words on the tip of his tongue. “I don’t know your family, Lance, but if I do know anything about thinking someone you loved and cared about was dead…”

Lance is lifting his head, surprise showing in the stretch of his swollen eyes.

“I know that they won’t give up until they see proof for themselves that you are,” Keith speaks with more conviction, because this is something familiar, something he can actually help with, despite not having a family of his own back on Earth. “They still think you’re out there, and that gives them hope. Just like I thought with Shiro. Just like Pidge thought with her brother and father. I don’t think you need to worry about your family as much as you do. If they’re anything like you, they’re strong, they’re looking, and they won’t stop until they have answers.”

The ship hums gently in the silence that follows. There’s a good amount of time where Lance is just gaping, slack-jawed and staring at him.

Keith turns his attention to his own hands. There’s one thing plaguing him more about what Lance said over everything else. “...And you’re not going to die. None of us are, because we’ve got to at least kick Zarkon’s ass first. You’ve got to be there for that. We can’t do it without you.”

The urge to move this time comes more naturally to him. He lays one hand on Lance’s knee, comforting, grounding.

“I...I never really thought about it like that before,” Lance finally replies, coming back to himself as if in reaction to the touch, like Keith has just triggered some emotional release button. “That is true, they are strong.”

More staring at his hands. Some staring at Keith’s hand on his knee. Then, Lance looks back up to him, smiling through it all.

Whether it’s the beauty of it through the sadness, or whether it’s the way Lance always seems to find the light at the end of the tunnel no matter what the circumstances, it doesn’t matter. It’s the single most touching smile Keith’s ever seen.

“...Thanks, Keith.”

Keith realizes with a start that he can’t _completely_ will it all away. He can’t will away how his heart flutters, both in relief that he said something right for once, and at the sight of Lance looking happy like he usually does.

Before he can think better of it, he's asking, “Why...why did you come here, though?” Lance tilts his head. “To me, and not anyone else.”

He seems caught off-guard by the seemingly unconnected thought, but he continues smiling, weakly. “Well, it wasn’t for your weird hugs.”

Keith feels like he’s been punched in the gut, instantly sour about his brave hug being made fun of, but only until Lance starts laughing, taking it back right afterwards. A joke. Right, Lance likes to make dumb jokes.

“Kidding, kidding! You know, it wasn’t bad. I actually didn’t know you had something like that in you. You’re just a little on the stiff side, buddy.” Lance throws his arm around his shoulder, dragging him in a tight squeeze of a hug to his side. Perhaps he’s making a good point, because it’s a very nice feeling, much better than his awkward attempt. Part of Keith wishes it won’t ever end. “Stick with me, though, and you’ll loosen up in no time, I’m sure.”

When Lance releases him, his hand trails up to his hair, mussing it up until Keith tells him to cut it out and pushes him away. He’s smiling despite himself, Lance’s own revived grin being too contagious. A warm, pleasant silence falls over them, in which Lance is immediately fidgety, wringing his fingers together and biting his lip. Anxious in a way that’s more endearing than annoying for once.

Keith waits patiently for him to reveal why he’s really here. To reveal what he could possibly want from him. His breath hitches in anticipation in his throat.

“That’s besides the point, I guess,” Lance whispers, glancing nervously to him, under the weight of his thick eyelashes. He blows out a large breath that fluffs up his bangs. By the time they’ve fallen back down, he’s there. “Keith, I came to say I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

Keith looks at him in utter bewilderment. The only time he’s ever heard those words come from Lance’s mouth were from the other night, and he’d chalked that up to being due to sleep deprivation or something. A glitch in the matrix, at best.

This isn’t what he was expecting. This isn’t something he could ever prepare for. Lance, choosing to come to his room to sincerely apologize _to him_. It’s incomprehensible. He didn't even know that word was in consistent use in Lance's vocabulary.

Keith frowns. “For what?”

“For teasing you earlier, about being afraid.” Lance gestures in front of him, like it’s obvious, fingers twirling sadly into the air. “That was...a lot harder than I thought it was going to be, and if you didn’t feel up to sharing your memories, I get it. I totally do.”

A warm palm begins covering over his own hand resting on Lance’s knee, and still, Keith doesn’t understand.

“So, I’m sorry. I crossed a line, that was way rude.”

Keith’s not entirely sure what to do, or say. Lance’s hand feels hot, somewhat sweaty, and he wonders if maybe Lance is just coming down with a bout of space flu or something, like Hunk and Allura were talking about earlier.

The laughter swirls up in his chest, builds through his throat, and trickles in waves out of his mouth before he can stop it. Warming every inch of him as his slight giggling quickly turns into full belly laughter. It’s a good laugh, the best he can remember having recently. Lance is pulling his hand away, gawking at him like he’s never seen him like this before.

In all honesty, Keith’s not sure he actually has.

“Sorry,” he says by way of lame explanation when he catches some breath, “I just never thought I’d ever hear you say something like that, either. I appreciate your apology, but you've got to admit, it's also hilarious.”

Lance flips onto his knees without a word, glaring, looking almost predatory. _Lunging over to him_ would be the most accurate way to describe what happens next. The air, the atmosphere seems to change around them like the flick of a switch, fast enough that Keith tenses right back up. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that it looked as if for a second there, Lance was going to grab him for some reason.

But he doesn’t. Lance reaches out to pluck his discarded pillow up on the way, and smacks it in full force against Keith’s side. Within the blink of an eye, Keith instantly warps into defense mode, yanking his own pillow out from underneath himself to backhand it across Lance’s face in retaliation.

The reaction that follows is like the taste of lightning, like wildfire igniting out of dry, thin air.

Feathers fly, as do their insults, their limbs tangling together in a dance that’s much less a real fight, and something infinitely more playful. They’re laughing, tumbling, and brawling with pillows like idiots at the equivalent of midnight. Keith’s seen and done many strange things in his life, but he has to say, doing something like this with Lance really takes the cake.

When they’ve had their fill of fun, they fall against the mattress, exhausted and breathing hard on their backs. Sort of halfheartedly bopping each other with the pillows until they ease out of it completely. The physical strain of the day and emotional overload has taken an obvious toll on the both of them.

“You know...you look different when you smile and laugh.”

Lance’s words are uneven and breathy, too close to his ear. Keith involuntarily shudders with the gust of hot air that ends up playing along the shell of it. He flops his head to the side, stares as Lance runs his tongue along his lip, then flashes him a much cheekier smile than expected.

He waggles his eyebrows, lowers his eyelids. “You should do it more often.”

Keith feels his cheeks grow impossibly hot, recoiling his body and settling himself back in his original spot, knees drawn up to his chest. There’s no telling just what the hell that’s supposed to mean.

“Shut up,” he grumbles. “Quit making fun of me.”

“Wasn’t a joke. I’m just saying, that loosening up stuff works wonders for you,” Lance says mysteriously, breathlessly, and leaves it at that for Keith to frantically over-analyze for who knows however much longer.

The only thing that falls from Keith’s mouth is a disgruntled grunt. He’s feeling stranger now, more self-conscious and aware of how close they’ve been tonight, how close they’ve been lately. Overstimulated, maybe. It happens to him sometimes, usually when there’s a lot of his senses being overloaded at once. The touching could be too much, but that’s not exactly what he thinks may be the case when Lance brushes his fingers across the exposed skin of his arm, because that part still feels amazing.

An accident. He’s just readjusting himself so he’s on his side, facing him. Watching him.

Keith’s waiting for the cue that will signal when Lance is going to leave, considering he’s already done what he came for. Against everything that makes any sense at all, Lance makes himself more comfortable, sliding the beaten pillow beneath his head and snuggling up into the sheets.

“Your bed feels comfier than mine,” he says, yawning, “Did you get a better mattress or something? Not fair.”

“I don’t think so,” Keith muses, training his eyes not to slip too much to Lance’s lips, to the inviting way they’re parted, right in front of him.

Lance’s lashes are fluttering, casting tired shadows across his ruddy cheeks. He’s probably as exhausted as him, if not more. Sleepily, he’s telling Keith he’s probably a liar and getting preferential treatment, which Keith tunes out. With a gentle shove at Lance’s shoulder, he gets him more awake so he can pull the sheet out from under him.

Lance stares questioningly, but Keith responds by simply tugging it over them. If he’s settling in to sleep here, Keith won’t deny him. It would be rude not to reciprocate, considering Lance keeps graciously sharing his own bed. Considering when he was this tired once, in a time that seems so long ago now, that Lance even became the bed himself.

Despite looking shocked at the gesture, Lance falls quiet. Keith thinks maybe he’s falling asleep, until he looks over to find that his eyes are still cracked open, observing him, then flitting around to observe his room, as though he’s particularly interested in something that’s keeping him awake. The reflective blue lights that never turn off are playing against the angles of his face, against his eyelashes and over the curve of his lips and nose. The light kissing them perfectly, painting a peaceful, quiet picture.

Knowing they’re both awake, like something has remained unresolved in some way, Keith decides maybe a little more conversation couldn’t hurt.

“So…” He twists the sheet in his hand, pulling it steadily up to his chin as he remains on his back out of habit, “one of those mermaids from that planet you and Hunk got stranded on...kissed you, huh?”

This is purely out of curiosity, Keith tells himself, that hot flush creeping back across his neck. Purely curiosity about what happened to them in the memory immersion, which they should probably talk about while they still have time. Peaceful nights like this are rare these days, especially with their advancing plans to overthrow Zarkon.

Keith recalls how Kolivan pulled him aside shortly before he started sharing a bed with Lance, suggesting that maybe he could begin doing missions with them at some point, considering he was one of the Blades now. Politely, Keith had declined for the time being, and kept their conversation hidden from the group. It wouldn’t be good at all especially to bring up with Lance at this point. He wants to keep things as light as possible outside of their memory exploration.

Through the dark, he can make out Lance grimacing. “Barely. It was through my helmet.” Keith’s words seem to sink in more, and he does a double take. Bolts up from his relaxed position, which is the opposite reaction Keith wanted to cause. “Wait, you saw that? How?”

“I don’t know, I saw a lot of flashes of your memory before we like...landed or whatever. I can’t think of how to describe it other than the fact it was like watching a movie, or like, flipping through a really weird animation sequence.” Perplexed, Keith raises an eyebrow. “Did you not see that?”

“Uh, no, dude,” Lance squeaks out his response, positively paling at that reveal, “All I did was close my eyes, and when I opened them, I was home. Nothing like that happened to me.”

He’s looking ill, like he might throw up. Keith can’t say he blames him, he’s not sure about all these memory rules and how they work yet. Kevin’s explanation was wildly under-explained, and he has a lot of questions himself that he’s itching to ask the second they return for another session.

Keith grins though, taking full advantage of Lance’s moment of weakness while he still can. “Why, what’s wrong? Were you hiding that one for some reason?”

“I didn’t want Allura to find out, okay?” Lance is huffing abruptly, defensively, “Cause I’d, you know...never have a chance with her then.”

“Because you got a _cheek kiss_?” Keith rolls his eyes, incredulity creeping into his tone. “Jesus, Lance, it’s not that serious. It’s just a kiss on the cheek. Through _glass_.”

“Yeah, but it was a _flirtation_ cheek kiss, not a _greeting_ or like, _goodbye_ cheek kiss!” Lance remains indignant. “There’s a very fine difference between types of cheek kisses, okay?! And that mermaid...she wanted me, man. Cause everyone does.” Adding in a dramatic whisper, he leans over, fingers slipping under the covers to Keith’s shirt to shake him around by it, “Allura can never know. She can’t, because then she’ll know my purity has been ruined!”

“From a cheek kiss,” Keith deadpans.

Whether consciously or not, Lances eyelids are lowering, probably out of drowsiness. He lets go of the fabric clenched between his fingers, and claps his hands over Keith’s cheeks, squishing them until his lips are pursed together.

Lance smiles wryly. “From a cheek kiss.”

Then he releases him, rolling to his back, grinning and closing his eyes. Laces his hands behind his neck, making himself comfortable and sighing a sigh of pure, annoying satisfaction.

Keith doesn’t know what it is that makes him do what he does next. He doesn’t know why he’s hardwired in such a way that he’s always doing things impulsively before really thinking of the consequences they might hold later.

Maybe it’s the way that cheek kiss has been replaying in his mind non-stop, burning an obvious jealousy that he should never have allowed to take hold over his heart in the first place. Maybe it’s the way Lance brings up Allura, and he can’t stop thinking about all those hearts above her head that he found deep in Lance’s mind—reminding him of a truth, of a reality he doesn’t want to hear.

It doesn’t matter. None of it does, because as usual, he’s already doing it before he can even entertain the thought that what he's doing could bring about unnecessary strife.

His eyes flicker to Lance’s smirking lips. To the comfortable way he's settled against his pillows with his arms supporting his head. Swallowing hard, he leans down, finding courage within Lance’s unawareness of his surroundings.

Without another thought, he lets his lips gently crash against the softness of Lance’s cheek. Taken aback, Lance’s eyes fly open, and he springs up to his elbows. “What...what was that?” He croaks, reaching trembling fingers up to his cheek.

Proof, Keith wants to tell him. A way to prove to himself that cheek kisses don’t mean anything. That a cheek kiss isn’t that serious. Or...something stupid like that.

There's no way to rationalize his impulsivity, so he stops.

He just stupidly kissed Lance on the cheek, and there's no going back from it.

“A _goodnight_ cheek kiss,” Keith mutters, every inch of him burning. He wills his voice not to crack, and flops over to his side before Lance can get a glimpse of his reddened face. “Now go to sleep.”

Lance responds only by curling up against his back. Not too close, but close enough that Keith can feel the warmth of his breath playing on his neck, steady and even. If he didn’t know any better, he would say there’s a hand curling the barest inch over his waist, but he can’t be entirely sure with all the fabric in the way.

Keith lets him stay there, because he's weak.

Because it feels _right_ , and—

Because it feels _good_.

 

* * *

 

Lance wakes up cold.

Very, very cold. With way too much space around him.

It takes him a second, stirring with a groan and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, to notice that he’s not in his own bed. The layout is wrong—the wall is on the other side, inverted from the way it usually is.

This is Keith’s room. Right. The memories from last night come flooding back to him, and it takes everything in Lance to not shriek girlishly into the pillows. Snuggling into the covers, he presses his face against the sheets and inhales deeply. He even ignores the disturbing discovery he makes when his fingers knock into something cold and metal, revealing Keith’s knife that’s for some reason tucked under his pillow.

The entire place smells like Keith, smells musky and comforting. Safe and warm. Keith let him stay, let him talk, even _hugged him_.

This is the dawn of a beautiful day.

Lance draws his fingers to his cheek, pressing against it, wondering if maybe that last part was a dream or not. He shakes his head, pushing down the flush that threatens to creep up his neck. Where Keith is, or rather, where he’s _not_ , is a bigger problem within itself. It’s not that Lance can’t guess where he might be—odds are good it’s one of his training mornings with Shiro.

It’s the fact that now Keith isn’t here to check if the coast is clear for him to leave first. It probably slipped his mind, considering he’s the one usually doing that, with the exception of the one morning where he knew the rest of the team wasn’t going to be around. Lance stills in his rolling, that tenseness creeping back up his spine. Shit. Of course the guy would run off after what they did and said last night. He should have seen this one coming, there’s only so much emotion Keith can probably handle.

While it’s endearing to imagine the way Keith must have reacted when he woke up, Lance is jittery and nervous as he pulls himself out of the bed, firmly tying his robe as best as he can. He didn’t even bring any clothes or anything to change into. He’s such an idiot. Handled the wrong way, this could be bad.

Seriously, really bad. There’s nothing that would be more annoying than the team asking them snooping, prying questions about why he’s suddenly leaving Keith’s bedroom in the morning, all disheveled in just his robe. He manages to work his courage up to approach the sensor, planning to carefully sneak out. What are even the odds that anyone would happen to be walking by at exactly the same—

“Lance?” Comes Pidge’s sleepy, groggy voice from across the hall. Lance wants to smack himself for thinking he might have one easy morning without any problems. “‘S that you?”

She’s still in her pajamas, toothbrush grasped loosely in her hand with a towel draped over her shoulder, scratching at her stomach. Clearly on her way to the showers. Lance thanks all that is still good in this universe, because she doesn’t have her glasses on yet, and is squinting at him heavily.

“Uh, yeah. It’s me.” Lance shifts himself, hoping that she won’t notice he came from a slightly different direction than usual. His and Keith’s rooms are close enough together that it really shouldn’t matter. “Morning.”

His heart is beating rapidly, pounding against his rib cage as he falls into step beside her.

“‘Sup,” she responds with, always one to be pretty out of it right after she wakes up.

She starts rambling disjointedly about something Lance is only half listening to, something about her frustration with having to try and more permanently fix the elevator after their team-building exercise, as per the order of Coran. About how she’s going to shuffle it off to Hunk anyway, since that’s more his area of expertise, and Coran should really start paying attention to their interests, or at least stop calling them by numbers at this point.

Muttering about how the team should respect more that she isn’t just some mindless robot who can fix all their problems at the drop of a hat. Lance reassures her that actually, she is, which earns him a weak punch to his arm.

Unfortunately for him, that distraction isn’t good enough. Not long after, she pauses in walking, cocking her head as if she’s just had an enlightening revelation. She looks back down the hallway, whipping her head a few times between where his and Keith’s rooms lie. Calculating trajectories, or something sciency like that, Lance can tell. He can practically see the wheels turning in her head as she begins to wake up more and more.

She looks him up and down, eyebrows pulling together, scrutinizing. Then she’s asking him something that makes his blood run cold.

“Wait. Did you just come out of Keith’s room?”

“Haha, what?” Lance says, probably too hurried to be entirely inconspicuous. “Don’t—Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I ever be coming from there?”

Pidge stares at him for another second, squinting, yawning. Lance wants to kill Keith, honestly, for leaving him to have to deal with this and possibly blowing their cover.

She only ends up shrugging, though. “Good point. That would be weird, there’s no way you’d ever make it out of there alive if you did.”

“True,” Lance rolls with it, “Did you know he sleeps with a kni—” She’s looking at him again. Shit, shit. “I mean, I bet he _probably_ sleeps with a knife under his pillow, right?”

There’s more suspicion in the raise of her brows this time around, but she laughs. “You’re probably right about that,” she agrees, grinning and resuming walking. “Sounds like something he’d do.”

They’re approaching the usual fork in the hallway—the one leading to the elevator that will take him away at lightning speed from this nightmare, the other towards the showers. Pidge waggles her fingers in a sleepy, half-wave. “Hey, I’ll catch up with you in the training deck later, I’m off to shower. See ya.”

She takes the left fork in the split of the hallway. Not saying anything else, just strolling away.

Leaving Lance to stand there numbly, clutching his heart and hoping he can make it through this morning’s exercise without having some sort of panic attack.

That was a close one.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to split this chapter in two, considering I wrote a whopping like, 4k just having these silly boys resolve some of their issues through conversation, while simultaneously expanding on others that may be coming to fruition later between them. Haha, if it’s not one thing, it’s another, amirite? Oh well. At least we know now they’re capable of working through it.
> 
> Anyway, part two is going to cover how their next team-building exercise goes...hopefully there’s some improvements…
> 
> As always, thank you for my continued readers' very lovely comments, and a nice, big fat Lemon welcome to my new subscribers. I hope this chapter was as enjoyable a read as it was for me writing and sharing it.


	9. Anatomy of a Cheek Kiss, part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nevertheless, as Lance works a lather of shampoo into his hair, slides his hands slowly to his chest, dragging more soap over it—he continues thinking of Keith.

Keith’s been at the training deck for most of the morning, and his attention is already waning fast.

“Alright, after several rather unsuccessful, and quite frankly, _painful_ tries at this,” Coran’s voice booms to them, his line of sight lingering, yet again, towards Keith and Lance. They almost roll their eyes in unison. “I think if we switch things up a little, we’re bound to have better results this time around.”

The team all share uncertain glances with each other. Keith can hardly blame them—to them, it’s not like anything in the equation has really changed. He and Lance have been bickering about the same amount outside of their bedrooms, though it feels more like they’re putting on a show to keep appearances, if anything.

He hadn’t gotten a chance to talk at all to Lance since that stupid kiss. He was hoping, at some level, that maybe Lance might have been too tired to remember. That maybe they could rewind that part then, and he could start over with just a bit more self-discipline like he originally planned.

It’s the only thought keeping him from completely losing it.

He burned off most of his frustration with himself training with Shiro that morning, his body rising early out of habit, maybe since he was in his own bed again. While he roused himself, he discovered he was embarrassingly attached to Lance in a way he wasn’t sure was entirely normal, and if it was, Lance was being incredibly, uncharacteristically quiet about the whole thing. Their legs and arms were intertwined like a well-put together puzzle, an easy intimacy lying there, as if it was a totally casual thing between them to wake up with him spooning Lance comfortably.

Spooning him, with his fingers idly curling into the hair at the nape of Lance’s neck, lips pressed in a fine line against the skin below it. Keith feels a hot flush creep up his spine, glad that his paladin uniform covers his train of thought.

They can talk about it later, Keith supposes, shooting another quick glance towards Lance. He’s focusing away from him, _too focused_ almost on what Coran has to say.

That’s _not_ normal. Maybe he does remember—

“Keith,” Coran calls to him, yanking him from his thoughts, “Your team is with Lance and Shiro.”

“Huh?” He says, startled. Everyone turns to stare at him. “My what now?”

Coran pulls at his mustache, sighing, “I’m splitting you all into two teams, of course. Weren’t you listening?”

Keith shakes his head, all too aware of the concern playing across Shiro and Lance’s faces in particular. What he wouldn't give to crawl right back into bed. This day is going to be far too long.

“Well, you better listen up now. Last time I’m going through this,” Coran continues, “Some Blade members have offered their services to help be the third, antagonistic team. As I just spent several doboshes explaining, your exercise will remain the same—to get to the end of the block trail without incident, in a reasonable amount of time. However, you will just have to work in different sets while fighting against the Blade member’s distractions.”

Frowning, Keith furrows his brows. “But won’t that be harder when we haven’t even figured out a way to solve things without an enemy being thrown in?”

“Smaller teams mean less distractions and room for easier communication.” Coran folds his arms behind his back, rocking back and forth upon his heels, as if any of this explanation makes sense. “With fewer members, even with shots being fired at you, it should be at least simple enough not to devolve into pointless tiffs. We need to up the ante if you all will be going up against Zarkon soon, you know.”

Coran levels them a look again. A look that clearly says, ‘ _You two better have utilized your memory therapy for something useful, or else’._

“That’s not fair,” Lance gripes, because of course he does, “The two biggest brains are on one team!” Cocking a hip, he slaps a hand upon it as angrily as he can manage. “Our team can’t be all brawn, you know.”

Scoffing, Pidge inspects her fingernails. “I don’t think you exactly fall into either of those categories,” she mutters under her breath, just loud enough for Keith and Shiro to hear, who are lined up on either side of her.

Keith holds back a snicker. Pidge gets a disapproving nudge in the side from Shiro, though he's smiling lightly while he does it.

Coran clasps his fingers to his temple, rubbing them in obvious annoyance. “Fine, Keith and Lance, you’re with Hunk. Pidge, you’re with Shiro and Allura. Hunk is in charge of team one, Shiro, team two.”

He must really have zoned out, Keith thinks, looking around to realize that Allura is suited up with them, a baton type weapon clasped at her side. Keith’s feeling too called out and already ashamed for not paying attention to ask just why she’s doing the exercise with them this time around, but it’s probably for the sake of evening up their numbers while being able to observe them more closely for improvements.

This is nerve-wracking. Keith takes in a deep breath. Things are different, things are moving along. As long as the cheek kiss isn’t doing any damage, whether remembered or not, he and Lance managed to have the most productive heart-to-heart they’ve had in...well, ever.

By all accounts, Coran is right. This _should_ be easier.

 _Should_ being the key word.

“Okay, I, uh, I don’t know about this,” Hunk is saying frantically, but Coran is waving them off, telling them to get into their groups and start formulating their plans. They have about ten doboshes to sort something out, the same amount of time they have to finish the exercise before their blocks will automatically disappear.

They’re apparently allowed to use their bayards and shields this time, because the Blades will obviously be armed. That’s not a good sign, especially as Hunk nervously groups up with them, gripping his stomach as if nauseated by the very thought of leading anyone through anything.

“Buddy, you got this,” Lance says, patting him on the back, already knowing that’s what the problem is. Lance tips his chin to Keith, including him this time around when he adds, “ _We’ve_ got this. Don’t we, Mullet?”

Keith smiles. Everything’s still okay. Lance doesn’t hate him, or seem to think that he’s weird. Not yet, anyway, and that’s enough for him to push those thoughts away for later.

“Yeah,” Keith nods, “Just think of your leading as engineering, but instead of designing parts, you’re working with other people. Other people who are making the parts for you.”

Hunk is blinking, while Lance stares up to the ceiling, it taking a few seconds for that analogy to sink in.

“Huh. Good point. I...think I can do that.” Hunk continues anxiously rubbing his hands together, still uncertain. “But what if I mess this up? What if I can’t do it? What if one of the Blades hurts you guys under my watch, or worse, Allura decides to throw us off the ship—”

“Hunk,” Keith looks him in the eyes, “None of that’s gonna happen. You just need to trust us, and we’ll trust you. Right now, we need to get over this so we can get to discussing tactics. We’re not up against an easy team.”

“Hate to agree with Keith, but he’s right,” Lance jumps in, eyeing Allura, Pidge, and Shiro uneasily, his hand firmly upon Hunk’s shoulder, “Calm down. I’ve seen you do this before, anyway. It’s just like that time in detention, when we got caught because of...you know.” Lance pointedly avoids Keith’s curious gaze, clearing his throat. “Um, yeah. Well, you thought of that distraction, carried it out, and we were able to sneak out again. Total leader move.”

Hunk stares at him, brows drawing low, taking a moment to remember whatever they’re talking about. “You mean when you got us in trouble in the first place, and then forced me to fake being sick, which ended up getting us into bigger trouble later?”

“I mean, force is a strong word.” Grinning wide, Lance leans against Hunk’s side with his elbow nudging him, eyes misting over with the memory he’s apparently looking back at as fond. “ _You_ thought about the stuff with the mushrooms, which was _genius_ —”

“Guys!” Keith cuts in more forcefully, his tone harsher and louder, beginning to grow annoyed by the amount of time they’re wasting. “Focus.”

They only have seven doboshes left, according to the timer. Off in the other corner of the room, Pidge, Allura, and Shiro are in heated debate, bent towards each other in a huddle with their heads nodding, probably a lot further along in their plan. Shiro leading, well that’s the part Keith honestly doesn’t think is too fair. He’s too good at that, considering he’s already always leading them. Plus there’s the fact that both Allura and Pidge are for the most part, level-headed and rational. At the very least, not as easily distractible or prone to bouts of debilitating anxiety.

Keith sucks in another breath, reminding himself that he needs to keep his cool. He can already feel his temper rising, which isn’t going to help at all. Maybe noticing the way his fists are clenching, Lance drops his flippant attitude, and rests his other hand at Keith’s shoulder. His eyes are flitting more nervously between them, probably praying to keep the peace.

“Alright, alright, just like detention, people are the parts,” Hunk repeats back to them, sensing how on edge he must be as well, his hands easing out in front of him, “Let’s…”

They huddle towards each other. It takes a moment for Hunk to examine the floating blocks, calculating, before he says with a grin,

“Okay, I think I have a plan…”

 

* * *

 

They all seem to be thankful for the fact that out of the two teams, Coran lets them have the dignity of going first.

Being second to the dream team, it’s their only short respite. As they board their blocks and are lifted into the air, two Blade members are stationed nail-bitingly at either side of them, on their own set of blocks that appear to be differently programmed from what they’re standing on. In any case, neither of them have to move completely synchronized.

From what Lance was able to gather from Coran’s instructions, one of them is someone they’re familiar with: Antok. Some weird dude who never seems to unmask himself, and has a funny-looking tail, which Lance didn’t know Galra could even have. He’s bulky and thick, pretty intimidating, and has said maybe all of three words collectively to Lance and the others.

The other is a new guy shrouded in mystery, who has a figure too similar to Keith’s for comfort, with a prehensile tail that’s thicker and ridged. Markedly different from Antok—more like a dinosaur, honestly—which is confusing. Coran introduced him as Regris, reminding Lance of some pimply-faced nerd he could have possibly thrown spit-balls at in high school.

Lance realizes as the blocks lock into place, Regris staring at him unblinkingly from the sidelines in that creepy mask, that his name is where the similarities end with that comparison. There’s nothing nerdy about the way he jumps into action as soon as Coran signals for them to start, of how he forges his own blinking in-and-out-of-existence trail over their heads at lightning speed, slicing his blade down at random times. Which then Antok—currently stationed below their path—is swooping in to catch before he loses it entirely.

This must be their plan, to toss blades back and forth in perfect symmetry, in a concise pattern of teamwork that has Lance feeling more than a little dizzy.

That’s what he wants, Lance thinks, watching in awe as he launches himself to Hunk’s old block in front of him. He wants to feel that pulse-throbbing-in-time, hearts-beating-as-one, minds-working-in-unison, kind of teamwork with Keith.

“Shit,” he can hear Keith cursing as he feels himself letting out an unintentionally loud, startled shriek in response, before shooting his bayard out of compulsive habit, effectively throwing Regris off his trail, who swerves to avoid the gunfire.

Regris flips higher above them, onto a block that blips into existence and carries him up and up and up. Lance is vaguely aware of Antok lurking below, watching him, waiting for whatever telepathic signal Regris may give to him next when he makes it to his new position.

There’s a lot of confusion at first, their shields out to try and deter being stabbed by knives, with a lot of shouting of orders and directions from Hunk that he forces his brain to focus on. They’ve done plenty of missions quick on their toes, so it’s not super hard, even though his ears are usually trained to taking orders from Shiro or Allura.

But trying to focus on staying in sync while simultaneously taking the defensive—

That’s most definitely the farthest thing from easy there is.

“Keith, up top!” Hunk yells, ordering in his next frantic breath for them to jump forward.

Lance hopes that the rush of their pace will keep Hunk from thinking too much about what’s going on, or else they’ll fail immediately. He knows Hunk well enough at this point to know the guy really can’t handle stress, which leads him prone to bits of nervousness and over analyzing during pressed times.

 _Seven doboshes left,_ Coran calls the remaining time out.

“Got it,” Keith replies, throwing his bayard as he jumps after only one small, determined glance up, striking his knife in a perfect wide arc so that Regris is immediately disarmed. Regris’ blade is struck right at the handle, causing it to fly from his hand and tumble over the edge of his block.

They watch as Regris’ knife plummets to the ground past them, for all of one second of relief. By the time Keith’s resettled on Lance’s previous block, he’s holding his arm up, outstretched to his bayard which falls neatly back to his hand.

It’s a badass move, one that Lance wishes he could have watched more closely as Keith flashes the most satisfied, cocky smirk as he does it, but Hunk’s voice draws him back with a rushed, “Lance, your left!”

Lance whips around, trying to keep the block from rocking as he sticks his landing at the same time, aiming his bayard to his left—until he realizes it’s the wrong left.

“Er, sorry, my left, my left!” Hunk stutters, as he's facing him to observe that they’ve made it over alright, while Keith shouts from behind him, “Right, right!”

Luckily, Lance doesn’t even have to turn, merely flings his arm straight out to his right side and shoots several times while he glares at Hunk, knowing his aim is good enough to distract whomever was sneaking up towards him. “Hunk, buddy, are you trying to get me killed?”

“I said I was sorry!” Hunk whines tearfully, biting his lip with his knees knocking together, clearly on the verge of panicking. He turns around, backing to the edge, intent on getting a running start to jump. “Let’s get this over with. Ready—on my count of three, _jump_!”

“We can’t!” Keith interjects with a grunt, and both Lance and Hunk turn around to find him locked in fierce blade-to-blade combat with Antok.

Keith’s gritting his teeth, determination reflecting in every line of his face, struggling to stand his ground with the limited amount of space he has. With every push of Antok’s blade clashing with his own, he’s slipping further and further back towards the edge of his block. While Keith has that crazy strength and a low center of gravity on his side, Antok is too powerful, has too much on him in added size.

They don’t have time to reevaluate their tactics, don’t have time to think as Regris returns with another blade in hand, aimed directly in Lance’s face on a block that’s blipped up right beside him. They simply hop into action like it’s just any regular old Galra battle, just now they’re suspended thousands of feet from the ground.

Lance ducks and fires back at Regris’ feet, focusing his attention on him before he remembers Keith might be in trouble. Regris nods in recognition of his smooth move, hopping up to avoid the ammunition, which triggers his block to disappear from under him.

Then he’s falling, falling—probably off to be caught in the invisible net far, far below them.

“Hunk—” Lance starts to shout, worried, when Hunk’s bayard fires past his head.

The pressurized blow is able to disrupt and distract Antok enough that he backs down from Keith, hitting the surface of the block to keep from getting obliterated, and Hunk’s cry of, “Jump!” rings out, loud and clear.

It should have been a flawless move. It should have rendered Antok out of the game because of the changing weight, while leaving Keith flying smoothly towards his block, because of course Lance is _supposed_ to be moving, or something, definitely—

Instead, his awful, shitty brain decides to play tricks on him at that very moment, because when he sees Keith leaping towards him, he’s actually seeing Keith curled up with him in bed, smiling nervously after having kissed his cheek last night.

Impact is imminent. Stupidly, painfully imminent. They collide. Lance is thrown down and back, sliding across the block’s slippery surface, with Keith rolling after him. The momentum is too much, and Lance squeezes his eyes closed, prepared to free-fall off.

He doesn’t, though. Something warm and smooth grabs onto his hand, catching his arm as the rest of his body ends up dangling over the edge.

“Forgot to jump again.” Keith is smirking above him when he comes back into Lance’s view, his tone soft and low, so Lance knows he’s the only one that can hear it. “What’s your excuse this time, sharpshooter?”

“Shut it,” Lance barks back, observing their surroundings with no small amount of panic.

Panic, and embarrassment. So, so much embarrassment. There’s no way everyone watching didn’t see that. No way at all that they missed how he must have gawked at Keith for seemingly no reason, how he even tuned out Hunk’s warning screeches when he must have noticed what happened.

Speaking of Hunk, there’s a veritable chasm separating them from him now, with one block lost forever from their path. Regris may be out of the game, but Antok’s in it to win it, lurking on a new block that’s sliding back and forth nearer to Hunk. He must realize he should strike in a way that Hunk can be easily blindsided, him being the obviously bigger long-range threat. Recalculating what his next move must be, while at the same time, acting faster than any of them can comprehend.

They have barely three doboshes left.

Lance is impressed at the seamless connection every Blade member—including Keith—has at being that perceptive by the skin of their teeth. Case in point, Keith senses Antok’s intentions as well, and hauls him up quickly, though Lance can sense some hesitation in it, like maybe he’d prefer to torment him for a little while longer like this.

Jerk.

“Hunk, stay alert,” Keith shouts to him, and Lance collects himself enough to shoot towards Antok, trying to deter him from hurting his best friend. “Remember our plan, we had a backup for this.”

“Yeah, but—” Hunk is staring at the space between them, his eyes stretched wide, frozen in place. “But that’s a really big gap! What if, if something bad happens, what if our plan doesn’t work—”

“No buts, dude,” Lance joins in, cursing in frustration when Antok dodges him, and somehow escapes by conjuring over a block to take him underneath them again. “You can do this, we trust you. Your plan working is the least of our problems right now!”

There's no time. They've made it over halfway through at this point. They have to move now.

And for him and Keith, it has to be in perfect _unison_ , making this all the more frustrating.

“I can lift you,” Keith's voice puffs out hot, loud and laced with breathlessness near his ear, “You have to let me, I've made jumps like this before by myself.”

“I—” They lock eyes. Lance has about a thousand fresh protests sitting on the tip of his tongue, but he shoves them down for the greater good.

He's about to agree when Antok reappears at just the right angle, just the right time, on a block that could possibly bridge their gap—

Keith doesn't hesitate. He scoops him up just like he did back at the memory room, and launches both of them in an impressive running leap towards Antok’s block at lightning speed. Completely on a whim—it wasn't part of their original plan, but it ends up working far better. When he sees them coming, Antok has no choice but to get out of their way, especially as Lance gathers enough of his wits to fire round after round of ammunition. He attempts to switch, to make it back to their old block, but it's already gone.

Then Antok is gone.

Now, it’s just him and Keith on the block, cradled within Keith’s strong arms while they desperately try not to make eye contact with each other. With Hunk jeering, still whistling at the impromptu move in the background. With the crowd of their team below cheering them on as well.

Keith’s breathing continues to curl pleasantly around his ear. Lance’s heartbeat is pulsing hard, rivaling the sound of his teammate’s support.

Keith lowers him down slowly, and when Lance does choose to look at him, there’s confusion lying there. Something uncertain, something he hasn’t seen for a long time, not since they were feuding classmates at the Garrison. Not since that first time he saw Keith excel at a simulation, when he came out of it to applause at his skill, only to act completely indifferent to all the praise he received.

“This isn’t going to work,” Keith says unexpectedly, staring down at the happy faces below, his tongue prodding at his cheek. Hands resting at his side, bayard wilting within his fist.

Lance isn’t sure he heard him right. “Huh?” He says, wondering what he could mean when they’ve already defeated their opponents and have a clear-cut path to victory. “But we made it. Hunk’s block is right there, we can just—”

“We can’t do it like this,” Keith speaks more tersely, almost as if he’s angry. He runs a hand at the back of his neck, gaze drifting up to Hunk. “The sensors weren’t designed in a way to recognize differentiating weight. You know that. If one of us moves, the other will still fall. We boxed ourselves into a corner.”

“Carry me the rest of the way, then?” Lance suggests with a laugh, grinning, nudging him with his elbow.

Keith just looks at him vacantly. “I…” He trails off, resolute in his decision, as ridiculous as it sounds. “I can’t.”

Lance’s grin falls. Keith isn’t joking.

Lance wants to ask if everything’s okay. Lance wants to ask why he’s suddenly acting like this, like he can’t complete the task as soon as it’s gotten the easiest it will get. He doesn’t care what it takes, they’re so close, he’ll even lock hands with Keith and jump with him to make this work. If that’s the answer that will make them a good team, the kind he knows they can be, then so be it.

“Did you get hurt, Keith?” Hunk calls over, creeping to the edge of his block, trying his best to eavesdrop on their conversation.

The shouts from below are beginning to dissipate, the rest of the team silencing at the non-action happening. Something flashes across Keith’s face, something Lance can identify as matching with what he saw back in the memory room. He searches his face again carefully, and yes, it’s definitely the same expression he had on when denying Kevin’s request to poke around in his memory.

Panic, maybe.

_One dobosh left._

After all his inner reflection over the past day, Lance can tell that for whatever reason, Keith is uncomfortable with their only option to make it to victory. He doesn’t know entirely what’s going on here, but he does have an idea.

“...No,” Lance reassures Hunk, whisking the smile away from his face. Keith glances at him from the corner of his eye, watching, frown deepening.

Lance winks discreetly, leaving Keith to be the only witness to it. He forces himself to look angrier, to suck back a breath and act as if they’re in the midst of a terrible fight. “I just don’t want Keith to carry me across anymore with his dumb, sweaty, mullet hands! I don’t need his help!”

“What?” Hunk’s smile falls, “But he just carried you, dude, the least you can do is thank him! Come on, we’re almost done!”

“Pssh, whatever, I can do this by myself,” Lance snarls, feeling bad about being aggressive when Hunk’s leading and just trying to do his best.

He tells himself he’ll make it up to him later for sure. Hunk will understand why this had to happen, why he has to take the fall.

Ironically, when he pushes at Keith as if annoyed and leaps off despite the protests and various boos from everyone else, Keith is the one who slips away, falling down and down and down.

The image of it burns behind Lance’s retinas.

Hunk is waving his arms in front of him, preparing to catch Lance, looking distraught at what the impact will bring. Even as Lance lands into Hunk’s arms on his block, he can’t unsee it. He can’t unsee the stretch of Keith’s eyes, the way his one arm stayed outstretched for that brief moment, as if reaching in vain to grab onto something he knew would be fleeting at best.

That he knew in the back of his mind, wouldn’t actually be able to save him.

The timer rings out, loud and empty. Putting further salt into the wound of their failure.

He and Hunk are tumbling in a screaming pile of desperately grasping limbs, following after Keith as soon as their block dissipates. Scrambling frantically, hands pushing and tugging on each other’s helmets, with Hunk squeezing onto him for dear life. When the net comes to cushion them, Lance is harshly separated from Hunk, and bounces onto on his stomach nearer to where Keith landed. He can only lie there, breathing heavily.

“Why are you like this, Lance,” is all Hunk says, crumpled in a ball with his ass high in the air, dazed expression on his face. “Why.”

“I think the better question is,” Lance mumbles into the net, “Why not?”

“Ugh.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll make it up to you later. Promise.”

Hunk gathers himself up, groaning, “You better.”

Lance turns his head weakly to look at Keith, who’s safely flat on his back, staring with that usual concealed expression towards the ceiling. His arms and legs out wide, sighing, clearly agitated with himself. Then, he’s glaring.

“Sorry,” he says to him, softly, without looking over. He doesn’t notice Lance’s smile, the way he props his head upon his arm to more closely look at the pretty curves of Keith’s face.

“Don’t know what you’re sorry for,” Lance whispers back, chuckling, smiling as he watches Keith slowly unclench his fists. He nudges him with his foot. “ _I’m_ the one who screwed it up, right?”

Keith still won’t look over, but his glare morphs into confusion, his brows relaxing from anger. Before Lance can get a chance to tell him that it’s alright, that it’s not a big deal, Coran is lowering the net down so they can get back to the ground.

Coran must see the defeated looks on their faces, how they’re all beating themselves up internally, because he announces with a smile, “Good try, team one! While you weren’t successful in your objective and have room for improvement in how you act towards each other, your communication was overall very refreshing. And that teamwork against the Blade! Very impressive.”

“I agree,” Allura confirms, smiling, “It was an extraordinary attempt. I think in particular, there was quite the positive difference between Keith and Lance’s teamwork.” She looks away to the rest of the group, shrugging, “Well, up until that end, anyway. Though I guess that cannot be helped. Good job as well, Hunk. It’s nice to see you in a more prominent role.”

Hunk flashes a tired smile, scratching his head. “Well, that’s a relief. That’s good, right? I was a good leader?”

He looks around for validation, beaming even more when he sees the reflected smiles and encouragement from the others. The overall consensus is that he very much is.

“You were the best leader,” Lance laughs, clapping him on the back. Hunk is easily forgiving, is easily understanding of his nature, so Lance knows there’s no hard feelings between them.

Everyone else seems to accept it, too, as just their normal Keith-and-Lance type interaction. Shiro is shaking his head in fond exasperation, but congratulating them despite it all, because it’s a marked improvement either way.

Everyone except Pidge, that is.

When Lance notices her, she’s staring at him oddly. She’s not even doing anything normal like cracking a joke at his expense, just observing him. He shivers, feeling exposed by her stare, somehow. She looks away right as Lance raises an eyebrow, daring her to speak her mind. There’s a small roll of her eyes that Lance catches before she turns her attention to Shiro and Allura.

He was really only acting as he would have in the past. How he might have acted to Keith, had this been last week, in a time where he’d been less understanding of the kind of person Keith could be. Hunk thanks him bashfully, and invites him to go get a refreshment pack that Coran left for them in the corner of the room.

They begin to walk to the side to observe as Shiro, Pidge, and Allura set out to begin. As they pass them, they’re still congratulated, but Shiro in particular pauses when he gets to Keith. He’s leaning over and saying something into his ear that makes him give a small smile again, and even though Lance has no right to be, he can’t help but feel envious that he’s not the person having that effect on Keith.

Coran pulls him to the side before Lance can fully experience the jealousy that’s rising up, and says out of earshot of the others, “I’ll let your behavior slide this time, if only because I hope you will continue to make improvements after your next session. A little leeway here and there can be made, I suppose.”

Nodding his head, Lance glances towards Keith, but Keith is busy heading over to Hunk, who invited him as well. “You can count on us, Coran.”

Coran smiles, and gives him a firm clap on his shoulder before walking away to start the next round. Lance feels the praise from everyone warming every inch of his body, feels elated by just the mere thought of ending this productive day curled up nice and comfortable with Keith. Maybe he’ll run his fingers through his hair again, Lance imagines, walking over.

Maybe Keith will even let him cuddle _before_ they go to sleep.

Maybe...

When he joins Hunk and Keith, things are...weird. Tense, almost. Keith seems happy, not overly morose or serious like he usually is. When Lance cracks a few jokes, he even gets a shy laugh out of it. A shy, _cute_ laugh. Small and contained, but bubbly in a way Lance didn’t know Keith could be capable of. Lance excitedly tells more jokes, just on the off-chance he can hear it again.

And he does. He gets to hear that new laugh a few times. It’s a wonderful, beautiful sound.

But it’s definitely _weird_. Lance can’t place exactly how it’s still tense, despite there not being the usual animosity between them. About why when Keith accidentally brushes against his shoulder when they sit, that the air between them seems to crackle, seems to come alive with electricity. About why every time that Keith laughs, Lance’s gaze lingers hungrily on his lips, and his fingers clench involuntarily.

It takes Lance a while to place the feeling. Longer than the time it takes for team two to— unsurprisingly—make it through the activity successfully. Longer than all the stolen glances Keith makes at him through lunch. Longer than the meeting they have where Allura explains the objectives of their next missions, and when he walks in on Kolivan talking about something with Keith by himself afterwards. Longer than when he makes up being an ass to Hunk by helping him prepare for dinner.

By the time he does realize what it is, it’s late afternoon. They get some unexpected downtime. When the stars continue to remain oblivious to the fact that they’ve entered into a new part of the day, Keith excuses himself to go train, and the rest of the team mills off to do various things.

The bathroom will be empty. Finally, gloriously _empty_. With real peace and quiet.

Lance doesn’t hesitate to take the opportunity to have a nice, relaxing shower without any interruptions.

 

* * *

 

A goodnight cheek kiss.

Lance isn’t a stranger to them.

His mother had given him plenty of them as a child, after tucking him safely into bed. Some of his past dates ended with them after he walked his dates safely back to their homes following a night of hand-holding and eating at the pier. His friends sometimes parted ways with one after hanging out. His one brief girlfriend at the Garrison often would placate him with one just so he would shut up about preferring to make out.

Family, crushes, friends, and lovers alike all give goodnight cheek kisses. Everyone does. So this is a mystery he shouldn’t even be hung up on.

Yet, here he is, standing just out of reach of the spray of the shower with his hand held to his cheek, feeling like if he steps completely under it he will lose the memory of Keith’s lips against them forever.

This is getting ridiculous. The water’s going to start getting cold soon.

Not because it’ll run out of heat, like normal Earth showers are ought to do, but because Pidge reprogrammed it to get him to stop taking such long showers. A threat she made good on a while ago, outvoted by the majority of the team, because he refused to stop singing in said long showers when everyone else was around. Lance glares at the memory, which briefly distracts him. That was the last time he felt most betrayed, Hunk being the only one who tried to convince everyone else that he sounded like a new age Celine Dion, if you squinted your ears hard enough.

How simple it would be, to go back in time for that to still be within his top two betrayals in life. Now it’s more like the number three spot. Behind his new number one, popping a boner with Keith’s head in his lap, and now this new number two—

The dreaded goodnight cheek kiss.

Lance considers Keith part of his family, in a way. Part of his new space family, just like he does the rest of the team. Lance considers Keith to be his friend—reluctantly, but it’s there, and it’s been there for a long time at this point. He can’t lie to himself about that anymore.

So sure, yeah, he’s been having a lot of thoughts about Keith lately that definitely tread past the line of friendship. Like, a lot.

Perhaps that makes him his crush, too, then.

Lance inhales sharply, breathes out slowly with that confession. Raises his free palm to the water, tempted by its remaining piping hot temperature.

_It is what it is._

Keith kissed him. Keith held him. Keith _laughed at his goddamn jokes,_ ones that weren’t even some of his best stuff.

Lance bites his lip, traces his finger along where the mark feels like it’s still burning against his skin. He takes one more deep breath before stepping in. Warmth eases over his tired body, over his sore muscles. The water, as always, feels nice.

You can't deconstruct the deeper meaning to a cheek kiss without having distinctive lines separating where you stand with the person giving them. You can't analyze what one means in what moment if that person is simultaneously like your family, friend, and crush all at once.

No, with no way of knowing of how Keith really feels about him, about what label he might be putting next to his name, he can't dissect it. It could mean everything, it could mean nothing.

It's frustrating. Frustrating and stupid.

Nevertheless, as Lance works a lather of shampoo into his hair, slides his hands slowly to his chest, dragging more soap over it—he continues thinking of Keith.

He's thinking of Keith trapped beneath him in the sand, with tight, little spandex shorts leaving barely anything to the imagination, the rough grit of broken shells and cool water teasing against their bare skin. He's thinking of Keith's sleepy smile that he's been waking up to. He's thinking of running his fingers through Keith's silky, soft hair.

He's thinking of cheek kisses, of warm, strong arms holding him awkwardly, but firm. Of Keith's soft, low voice comforting him. Keith telling him that everything will be okay in his own unique way.

Lance doesn't wash his face just yet. The impression of lips is clear there, tingling, lingering like all these embarrassing thoughts in his head. The steam might be getting to him. Reality is morphing gradually into a fantasy he allows himself to entertain.

He’s imagining what Keith would look like with him at the real Varadero Beach, how his subtly noticeable freckles would probably be standing out more with a healthy tan, how his hair would be stiff from the salt of the sea when he dared to thread it between his fingers. He imagines Keith holding him tightly, spooning him, as they both drift off to sleep together in a bed far, far away from the cold vacuum of space. With the roar of the ocean wind echoing through their window, with a chorus of voices waking them up in the morning to have a bustling, happy breakfast full with his family and friends.

Lance hums gently, in time with the beat of the water. Lets himself lean back against the tile as his fingers continue to roam.

There’s better thoughts. So many better thoughts for his mind to stray to.

Like Keith _kissing_ him okay, _touching_ him okay. Kissing and touching him in places, in ways that he never has before, and likely never will. Lance’s hand falters for a second at the painful clench around his heart that follows with that thought, but he pushes on, traipsing over his hip, idly circling over the bone there.

Imagining, instead, that it’s Keith’s calloused, gloved hands.

They’re selfish thoughts, maybe, but his body’s responding to it, all the same. His hand is traveling across his stomach now, through the trail of hair starting at the end of it, and leading to—

Then the water’s cold. Freezing, nerve-shockingly cold. Like instant goosebumps all over his body, super brain freeze cold. There's no afterglow to bask in properly, no relief at all, because the way he's scrambling for the shower door to get out almost causes him to slip on the tile.

“Aw, come on! I wasn't even singing this time!” Lance howls to no one, to everyone, to any god that might be listening who would dare interrupt him at such an inopportune time. “Why can't we just take this stupid feature off already?!”

He’s breathing heavily as he’s toweling himself off as fast as he can, coming down from the spell the warmth of the water seemed to cast over him. The sobering reality of what he was just about to do hits him, and hits him hard. He’s never been so relieved to see such an empty shower room.

But it’s better this way. It’s better to relieve the pain in his heart this way, than by no way at all.

The tension. That overwhelming tension that sits low in his stomach when he’s around Keith, that tension that makes him want to pull him in close, and do terrible, horrible things to him.

Terribly, horribly _good_ things.

He’s such an idiot. It wasn’t tense in a negative way. He’s just incredibly, insatiably—

 _Horny for Keith_. Groaning, Lance covers his flushed face with one hand. This is by far the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to him. He was going to use his long-time rival as wank material without any sense of irony at all. This has to be a new low.

He looks back and forth around him a few more times, suspiciously, heart still thundering in his chest. With that dull throb of an ache between his legs, with arousal burning hot throughout every inch of his body. There’s rarely an opportunity when he gets to do this at this time of day, and he’s done far too much to rile himself up already.

Or more like _, Keith’s_ done far too much to rile him up already.

 _Carpe diem_ , Lance thinks angrily. He’s gonna carpe the fuck out of that diem. Or fuck the carpe out of that diem. Whichever, whatever makes more sense.

Lance squares his shoulders. He’s already come this far. He’s going to do it anyway.

When he slips into a toilet stall to continue, ashamed with his thoughts and his daydreams, that’s what he tells himself.

He’s just living in the moment.

That moment in some far off alternate universe, where Keith actually likes him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know Lance has seen [_Dead Poets Society_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=veYR3ZC9wMQ) like at least 10 times.
> 
> I tried very hard to release this before Christmas, and I’m very happy I made it, because work has been insane. A good chunk of ch. 10 has already been done, but I’m not sure between the holidays and family if I’ll get to finish and publish. There’s a good chance I’ll be able to get out at least one more chap before the end of the year, but if I don’t, here’s a very happy holidays and new year to all of you wonderful klance fuckers out there.
> 
> May your days be gay and full of quality fan content


	10. Things That Go Bump in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His hand is on his dick. Keith’s hand is on his dick, and he’s sitting there, going ‘mmm, thanks’ about it?!

Not even a few hours into his free time, and Lance is about to set a new record for making a fool of himself.

He and Pidge are standing in Pidge’s room, where she’s somehow managed to set up a bizarre and complicated alien emulator for _Mercury Gameflux II_ —through some stroke of two-parts genius, and at least one-part pure, caffeine-induced insanity, because it hasn’t been that long since she’s been working on it.

He has no idea how she found the time to do this.

“I’ve been making some adjustments to it, but it’s nothing fancy.” Pidge shrugs, as if this mountain of beautiful rewiring is something of average design. “In any case, it should start up alright now. The lights are a neat touch, though, don’t you think?”

“No kidding.” Lance whistles, awe-struck, running his hands along the smooth knobs and gears. Afterwards, he knocks a playful fist bump against her shoulder. “It’s incredible. You’ve really outdone yourself, Pidge.”

Modestly, she thanks him, adjusting her glasses. Lance pushes her forward by the small of the back, feeling much like a kid waiting to open presents on Christmas. “Well alright, let’s start this baby up, and see what she can do!”

Flicking the button on, they both stare in anticipation—Pidge with her fists curled tight and bouncing on the balls of her feet, Lance holding his breath. The start-up music to _Killbot Phantasm 1_ comes to life amidst bursts of static and popping noises. The makeshift screen fills with that familiar, classic log-in menu, blipping tiny block fighting characters into sudden life.

They both cheer, celebrating the inauguration by starting a game. It isn’t a perfect prototype; the screen flickers off at random times, and the buttons Lance remembers using for certain moves as a kid don’t work in the same ways. In short, Pidge created most of the shortcuts with her own new system, and now Lance is surely going to pay for it.

But it’s amazing. Truly another trip down memory lane, one that causes way less emotional strife than the therapy he has to do with Keith, and Pidge seems to be enjoying herself just as much. After they get out a few single player warm-ups each, they begin a two-player run through. Some one-on-one battle flashes into existence, and they’re thrown into the thick of it.

Lance is highly focused, concentrating with getting used to his newly formed techniques, when Pidge throws him off.

“You know,” she says, drawing out her words, eyes remaining on the screen, “When I told you and Keith to ‘get a room’ last week, I was speaking...facetiously. I was making fun of the way you two always fight like an old, married couple. It wasn’t meant to be actual advice, Lance.”

Lance immediately drops his controller. As it clatters to the floor, Pidge whoops, slashing over and over again at his character, depleting his HP to a ridiculous amount until he gathers his wits back about him and numbly resumes.

“I, uh. I don’t know what you mean, we didn’t—”

“Save your dumb lies, I know,” she cuts him off, mercilessly pressing buttons to ultimately destroy what’s barely left of him. “You think I’m that stupid? I may not have good vision, but I know how to calculate something as simple as a direction angle of a vector. Had I retraced your steps, the direction you came from this morning would have landed me back at _Keith’s_ door, obviously. Please don’t try and patronize me.”

She snorts, as if that’s totally a common knowledge thing for someone to do off the top of their head, as soon as they wake up every morning. Lance can only feel capable of giving a tired groan, because that’s just his luck. He fucking knew it. He knew she was doing some crazy math even at her most tired.

He really can’t trust anyone anymore.

Cursing, Lance tosses his controller to the other side of the room. He’s the ultimate loser right now, in everything. Jumping up with the happy dinging of 8-bit fighter game music, Pidge twirls around to do some weird dance as it announces that she’s the winner. Lance jabs a finger accusatorily at her, throwing up his hands.

“Okay, look,” he heaves through a sigh, gritting his teeth, “You can’t tell anyone, alright? We’re just helping each other out. It’s not a big deal.”

Pidge’s victory dance gets cut short. She freezes in place with one leg up mid Lance-sucks-at-everything jig, her mouth agape, staring down at him in some form of shock.

It takes Lance a little longer to realize his wording of that was extremely wrong. Completely, horribly wrong. A homotastrophe of epic proportions, everything in him screaming _abort, abort, abort_. His entire face flushes watching the way she wrinkles her nose, how she looks at him in utter mortification.

Putting up his hands, he tries to explain, “Wait, I didn’t—er, _we_ didn’t—”

Pidge claps her hands over her ears, looking positively green in the face. “Ugh, gross, please don’t say anymore.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, I swear!” Lance shouts as loud as he can, because he has to right this wrong. Pidge tentatively takes one hand off of her ear, giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“I meant that we’re like, equally satisfying each other’s—uh, no, wait. That sounds worse. Keith likes to be touched—No, delete that, delete that!! I mean—”

She already has her hands over her ears again at the word ‘satisfying’, shaking her head and saying, “No, nope, no, don’t wanna know,” over and over until he stops trying to explain.

Defeated, Lance slumps over, placing his head in his heads. He’s never felt so humiliated in all his life. Weakly, he bemoans, “Oh, god. Keith’s gonna kill me. No one was supposed to know.”

The friendly _ping_ of the game restarting is what has Lance lifting his head back up. Back at his side on the floor, Pidge has resumed it as if everything’s still normal, starting at the beginning and nudging him with her foot so he’ll accept the two-player run through.

Dragging himself across the floor sluggishly, he plucks up his controller from where it’s sitting by the wall. When he gets back to their area, he can’t contain himself from pushing his lip into a pout.

“Relax. I’m not going to tell anyone,” Pidge reassures him, though her amusement is shining clear as the stars outside her window. “I’m pretty sure none of the other team wants to be traumatized like me, anyway.”

They lapse into competitive silence as the game picks up, both trying to defeat the other, Lance trying to gain some leverage back and get the heat to leave his cheeks. His hard work pays off when he manages to win the first round. Then Pidge just has to keep pushing the envelope.

Sighing, she tilts her head towards him, gaze briefly flickering over him with her glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose from sweat. “That...wasn’t why I brought all this up. I just wanted to tell you...to be careful.”

Lance ducks his character down, narrowly avoiding a kick. “Careful?”

He swears if this is some joke about using protection, he’s never going to be able to face her again. What Pidge does tell him, however, is arguably worse. Much, much worse.

“I know this is probably a big step for you,” she mysteriously elaborates, thumbs jabbing away, “So if you guys are happy, I won’t interfere. But I know you, and you...you have this way of going all or nothing when it comes to your heart.”

Lance glances to her, trying to focus on the game at the same time, but the way her voice lulls into something softer, more cautious, draws his attention. She’s pointedly trying not to make eye contact, mouth a thin line with her tongue sticking out of it in concentration.

He takes the opportunity to punch her out on screen. His hit lands, and drains enough HP for this awkward conversation to feel just that much more worth it.

“What do you mean?” He asks nervously, almost hoping the explanation ends there.

It doesn’t. Pidge sighs a little, a whistle of breath on the edge of exasperation, and pauses the game. She turns to look at him.

“When you had that like, short rebound crush on Allura, you were the same way. Hunk and I have been trying to keep an eye on you, but you’re fucking hopeless.” She presses a finger to his chest. “When you love someone, you get all crazy jealous and obsessive on top of all the positive things, like your loyal—although totally _cringeworthy_ —romantic devotion.”

Their eyes meet. Lance feels like there’s something else on the edge of her tongue that she wants to say, but the harshness ekes out of her tone again.

She twirls her hands into the air, then slaps them upon her folded knees and shrugs. “Let’s face it, you can be an emotional, mushy dork. So just don’t be stupid about this. We have some big stuff coming up ahead, and we don’t need any more drama than there already is. This isn’t the Garrison anymore. You can’t let your feelings consume you.”

Releasing the pause, she unfreezes the game unfairly at a time where, yet again, Lance is distracted and subsequently getting his ass whooped for it.

Frowning, Lance focuses on various fragments of her words, mind racing at the thought of what exactly she’s implying.

_Rebound crush. This isn’t the Garrison anymore._

Lance wants to laugh. He and Keith weren’t even friends at the Garrison, they were locked-in-constant-battle _foe_. When Keith was expelled, he was nothing but happy, of course.

All of a sudden, the screen seems achingly bright against his eyelids.

Nothing but happy. Combo kick-kick-punch.

In the back of his mind, before he can suppress it deep, deep down again, an image of an old bar in the middle of the desert, tainted by heavily drifting smoke, flashes behind his eyes. His heart clenches. He’s thinking about sitting on a hard wooden chair for hours, watching, waiting for the moment when he finally—

Shaking his head of the haunting shadows of his past, his mind gets distracted by Pidge’s obvious, overshadowing concern. The brief memory is lost again, sinks back to where it rightfully should lay, buried underneath everything he ever needs to inspect more closely in his life, but doesn’t want to.

Looking back at Pidge and smiling wryly, he sidles up to her, bumping their shoulders together and elbowing her in the side. “Hey wait...are you actually _worried_ about me?”

Pidge’s fingers noticeably slip over the buttons this time, completely missing her chance to do a combo that would have kicked his ass. Lance grins harder. By some insane odd, Pidge fumbling during a game—there’s no doubt about it. That means that she was _definitely_ trying to voice concern.

“I wasn’t trying to say that,” she lies, glaring at the screen, her cheeks dusting a little pink, “I was going to say that if you two fuck up Voltron because of your foolish, out-of-control hormones, I’m going to—”

“Haha, you were totally worried!”

Lance laughs obnoxiously. He nudges her until she gets mad enough that she forgoes fighting him on screen to fighting him in real time, bopping him swiftly with her controller, and both of them end up losing. Pain sears over the back of his skull. He has to hand it to her. Pidge can be stronger than she looks.

Rubbing his head, already feeling a small welt forming, Lance still grins. If Pidge is misinterpreting this whole situation, he might as well have some fun with it while he still can.

“Never fear, m’lady,” he says in a deep, princely imitation, bowing at the chest, “for loverboy Lance knows exactly what he’s doing, alright? It’s gonna take more than some moody mullet macking on me to break down this finely beating, handsome heart.”

“Spare me that mental image,” Pidge snaps back, bringing a hand to her forehead, “Do whatever you want, but I don’t want to hear about it. You guys are like, my brothers. That’s like hearing that my brothers are making out, Lance. With _each other_.”

She sticks out her tongue, making a few over-dramatic, gagging sounds.

“Ew, ugh, no,” Lance groans, that explanation putting some things into perspective as he thinks of his own brothers. Only Pidge would be able to find a way to try and kill his boner for Keith. “Why are you trying to ruin Keith’s hotness for me?”

“Because, you’re shitty brothers,” Pidge explains, snorting, like that’s all too obvious. “Matt would never be that annoying or gross...”

Hunching over more, a frown unfurls across her face as her thoughts must be wandering off to Matt. Some silence falls over them, in which Lance feels the tight grip of pity when he knows that any mention of family can send him into a foul mood in an instant.

He at least knows his family is _safe_. He can’t imagine what it must feel like for her, not completely knowing. How it must have felt all that time thinking that two of her three family members were presumed dead for over a year.

As such, Lance gives her a second, clearing his throat and setting about starting a new game. Pidge’s lapse into wherever her mind must have wandered is short-lived, or at least, it appears that way. Not one second later, she’s telling him she’s going to kick his ass, and picks back up her controller.

“One bit of advice I will give, though,” she speaks up, eyes glued to the screen on full kill mode again, “Keith’s not going to like the next time you flirt with somebody else, like you probably will on our next mission.”  

“Are you joking?” Laughing at that outrageous statement, Lance flicks up his fingers on the edge of the controller while attempting to pull a combo to knock her off his back. “Keith only has like, _three_ emotions, tops—pout-sulking, knife worship, and murderous intent.”

Pidge punches his character viciously. She seems disgruntled by his refusal to believe her.

“While I agree with that spot-on Keith analysis, with all seriousness, I really mean this,” she huffs, “If you keep doing it while you’re…”together”, or whatever the hell you’re calling it...there’s going to be trouble.”

Lance can’t help it—he continues laughing. Keith, getting jealous over _him flirting_?

Maybe Pidge doesn’t realize they aren’t really sleeping together that way, but honestly, even if he were, why would Keith ever be _jealous_? The guy doesn’t seem like the type to care or be that dedicated to any one person, let alone get possessive about _him_ sleeping around or flirting just as aimlessly.

They aren’t even together. Why would it ever matter?

Still, it brings a thought to him that he hadn’t considered before. A thought that directly leads him to wonder just exactly how Keith might react these days if he _did_ flirt with some random alien somewhere. To be fair, it has been a while since he did that, at least from sometime before they started sharing a bed.

He can conduct it as an experiment, maybe. An experiment to prove just how horribly wrong Pidge is about everything.

“Sure, whatever.” Lance rolls his eyes, digging his fingers harder into the buttons than he really means to. It’s laughable. Keith, getting jealous over him. Ridiculous. There’s no way Keith could possibly feel that strongly towards him. “We’ll see about that.”

“Fine, go for it then. See what happens, idiot.”

Pidge jerks her arm, grits her teeth, as she slams him with combos. This is the end. He frantically scrambles to defend himself, but to no avail.

He had a good run, he supposes. Sort of.

Pidge shoots her fist into the air. Then she turns to him, waggling her eyebrows, and says with a smug grin, “But when you get instantly cockblocked afterwards, don’t say I didn’t try to warn you.”

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Lance is sitting on his bed in the dim backlights of his room, thinking about his family. Waiting for the moment, passing some time, until he’ll hear that familiar sound of Keith’s feet pattering down the hall.

There isn’t much he’s contemplating in the same way that he was doing yesterday. Since Keith’s helpful talk with him, it’s been easier to think of his family in terms of their strength and determination, and to not worry so much about how they might be coping with his mysterious disappearance.

However, it doesn’t make him miss them any less. It doesn’t make him feel like he can’t dwell over the memory of the way the water felt that day during his first surfing lesson, how his brother’s gentle hand had supported his back and steadied him on his board. How his mother had told him how well he’d done, how they’d all left in a rambunctious group and gotten ice cream at _Coppelia’s_ afterwards in celebration.

These thoughts leave an ache in his heart, an unpleasant tightening in his stomach. Despite this deep seated pain, he cherishes being refreshed of the images of his family. So he can’t say that the memory immersion was all bad, in a way.

Tugging his sheet to his chest, he folds his arms behind his head, and sinks against the pillows. Smiling gently, replaying the vision in his mind, before it wanders off into something he hasn’t thought of before.

The brief flash of mourning he saw on Pidge’s face earlier comes back to him.

He stares at the ceiling, watching the lazily drifting lights and stars play against the shadows of the room. Blinks the sleep away from his eyes.

For the first time, he really wonders about Keith’s family. He wonders how Keith copes with being ripped away from them, wonders what sort of relationship he even has with them. He wonders why Keith never seems to talk about them, why he’s never heard so much of a mention about them in passing.

At the Garrison, he can’t remember seeing them at orientation, when many of the student’s families dropped them off for their first day starting the program to help settle them into their dorms. When Keith was kicked out, it was rumored that he left alone. That no one showed up to help him pack his belongings, that he just left with a backpack of items and set out into the desert.

He’s not sure how much he believes that, but it’s something that’s always stuck in the back of his mind.

Brows furrowing, Lance wonders if Keith misses them in the same ways that he misses his own family. He wonders if Keith is plagued with this same sort of loneliness, with this sort of ache in his heart that he can’t ever seem to rid himself of.

A sound from the hall draws Lance out of his reverie. _Clip-clap, clip-clap_. Steady, even steps, neither too-loud nor too-quiet. Somehow conveying a general cockiness and confidence, as much as a consideration for the fact the others might be sleeping.

Lance knows who it is far before his door is sliding open.

“Hey,” Keith calls from the doorway, standing in the soft glow of light reflecting down the hall. His hair damp and alight with blue against stunning black strands, body a flicker of dark, taught curves on the spots where the illumination doesn’t quite reach.

Lance stiffens beneath his sheets. He gasps as quietly as he can manage.

“Uh, hey dude.”

The door slides shut after Keith walks through, foregoing common courtesy—which Lance didn’t bother with last night, so it's not like he _really_ needs to ask if it’s okay to come in. Entering as if this routine is as normal as them fighting, every step Keith takes, every move he makes, is purposeful and unquestioning.

The secret’s out. He knows Lance will move over to allow him room without having to ask anymore. The domestic implications of this aren’t the only reason his heart begins picking up speed, because for sure, Lance is watching him.

“You weren’t waiting up for me long, were you?” Keith asks simply, drawing nearer at a snail’s pace. Curiously enough, he’s wearing his paladin robe, which Lance wasn’t sure at this point he even had. “I meant to be here sooner, but I got caught up with training, and then had to take a shower. Shiro insisted I eat, too.”

The mention of the shower makes Lance wince. If only Keith had been there earlier, he would have seen him at his most vulnerable, maybe even heard the noises he couldn’t help but make. Perhaps, on some small stretch of hope, they could have had some fun toge—

Oh, no. He’s not going to think about that now. No, no, no. Keith is clearly intent on crawling into bed with him, and they are _not_ going to start off the night with him trying to explain away why he has a boner.

Keith doesn’t get the message that this is the time to cool down, not get riled up all over again. Lance is forced to watch, with another startled gasp floundering in his throat, as he immediately disrobes, fumbling with untying the knots of the tie around it as if he’s never undressed before another person before. Slipping the robe carefully from his shoulders, as if suddenly shy, as if Lance has never gotten a glimpse of his bare arms.

Which isn’t true. Lance would know, Keith was basically infamous back at the Garrison for the blunt strip-in-front-of-basically-everybody way he’d barge into the locker room. How he’d get in without sparing anyone a glance, just peel off every layer in the middle of the room with no shame whatsoever, and silently redress himself.

Infamous may have been the wrong word to use, Lance reflects on, realizing that no one really talked about that at all. They had all been too busy gloating about his simulation scores, and throwing theories around about his mysterious relationship with Takashi Shirogane, for that to have really come up in conversation.

But Lance is sure he heard it _somewhere_.

Neatly, Keith folds his robe and sets it down over one of the piles of alien artifacts that Lance has collected and recently left just sitting in the center of his room. Now standing over the side of the bed, hovering, Lance gets a pleasing view of his outfit underneath. The matching paladin pajamas making a reappearance are another surprise, considering he caught Keith sleeping in his day clothes yesterday.

Where the similarly sized top is loose on his own gangly body, on Keith it’s tight across his chest—very, very tight. In contrast, the loose, flowing pants are much too long on him, pooling over his feet, which Lance assumes are bare considering he’s still refusing to wear their awesome lion slippers.

And don’t get him started on those arm muscles. Those perfectly formed biceps could even give Shiro a run for his money.

“Waiting…” Lance bunches the sheet in his hand, and bows his head. His cheeks are hot, too hot, because that was _exactly_ what he was doing. “Haha, no, no. Why would I be waiting for you? I mean, not that you’re not welcome here. But like...it’s not like we always need to sleep together, right?”

Keith doesn’t seem offended by that like he probably should be, like Lance was halfway hoping he _would_ be. He just gives him one of those typical looks of exasperation, folding his arms as he stands directly in the stream of light from the window, piercing eyes slicing through his thin facade. With starlight shifting around him, he appears all the more ethereal.

“So what _were_ you doing up?” He asks with a tilt of his head, an underlying layer of amusement there that isn’t lost on Lance.

“Uhhhh…” Lance blanches. He hadn’t thought of a cover-up that far ahead. “Meditating?” He decides on lamely, rising in a pitch that reveals how much he doesn’t even believe that statement.

“You, meditating,” Keith repeats, unconvinced, words dripping with dry sarcasm. He raises one eyebrow. “Really.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m a big meditator.” Lance vigorously nods his head, cupping his chin with a well-placed finger gun. He totally has this, he’s a _great_ actor. “Remember that planet we visited once, with those aliens that told us about how ritual meditation brought them closer together as a culture?”

Keith looks to the ceiling, searching his memory. “And you made fun of them for it?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Lance waves him off, ignoring his judgmental tone. “But then I got to thinking, maybe they had a good point.”

Rolling his eyes, Keith hikes one knee up onto the bed, flashing a slanted smirk that has Lance’s pulse leaping up in his throat. “Whatever you say, Lance.”

Then he’s crawling over, tucking himself under the covers before Lance can so much as squeak out a protest. He curls up on his side, facing away from Lance and the wall, readjusting the sheet up to his neck. He must not want to talk about what happened earlier, or maybe he’s just tired, which is perfectly fine with Lance. Overall, he’s still feeling a little embarrassed by Pidge’s call-out of him, of the fact everyone saw the way he froze during the team-building exercise.

Lance swallows, hard, eyes flickering over Keith’s prone form. His fingers itch to touch.

To touch his hair, to touch his skin. To touch anything his hands can reach.

Last night he felt confident enough to brush his knuckles against Keith’s back. Tempted to throw an arm around him, but he held himself back from it. This time, he inches his fingers even farther forward, until they're noticeably resting over the sharp curve of Keith's hip.

“Quit hovering,” Keith grunts through the quiet, surprising him, “If you’re gonna put your arm around me, then just do it.”

His fingers slip from his hip. Lance almost can’t believe his ears. “You sure?” he whispers, because this must be some insane fever-dream he’s going to wake up from any second now.

Keith slides himself closer. “Uh-huh...go ahead.”

No explanation, no indignation. Blunt and to the point. A very purely Keith thing to do, and Lance knows better than to question it.

With an invitation like this, he hopes he can contain himself. The palms of his hands are clammy and shaking when he takes Keith up on his offer, and slings his arm around him. Drawing up closer to his back, he resituates himself until they’re practically spooning. What he isn’t expecting is the way Keith folds into him, breaching that small gap of space and making a soft humming noise of approval.

The end result is that the curve of his ass is tucked perfectly against his crotch. Gulping, Lance attempts to ignore the tingle of incoming arousal, and focuses on the feeling of finally being able to cuddle Keith with his permission.

It's different than waking up with Keith attached to him. This is monumental. Keith actually _wants_ him to touch him in other ways. Perhaps not in all the ways he might be hoping, but at least enough that he can truly get his fix.

Feeling more encouraged, Lance buries his face into Keith’s hair, inhaling as discreetly as possible. Dampened under his nose, it smells strongly of that Altean wildberry-esque shampoo they have in the showers.

Anticipation churns in his gut, runs up his spine. Keith shivers against him, very slightly. A tremor that runs through them both, a current electrifying their intertwined bodies. Swallowing what would have been a questionable noise, Lance lowers his nose to Keith’s ear, placing his lips just below his hairline.

Tempted. Tempted to touch them to the warm, soft skin there.

Lance can barely hold himself back from it. He shouldn't get too ahead of himself here. He shouldn’t.

It’s just that Lance never quite knows when exactly to stop pushing the envelope in certain situations. As far back as he can remember, it’s always been an almost morbid curiosity of his, seeing how much he can push something here, bend something there. Whether they be rules, challenges, avoiding schoolwork, or antagonizing people, it didn’t make a difference. There were some things his overwhelmingly curious nature could only be satisfied by—and that was through experimentation.

Physical, hands-on experimentation.

“Are you cold?” Lance murmurs, lowering his lips to the skin he’s been eyeing. Not moving them, just letting them rest there.

There shouldn’t be anything wrong with that.

He draws the arm he flopped around Keith closer into him, his palm folding lightly over his abdomen, so he can properly squeeze him into a nice hug. Above the fine line of anything too suggestive, but it’s far more intimate than they’re used to.

There’s the smallest shift from Keith, a shaky, almost unnoticeable hitch of his breath. It pleasantly surprises Lance when he doesn’t move away. Lance’s gaze flicks to his next movement, following the welcoming stretch of his neck, the tilt of his head further to the side to accommodate his new position.

To allow his lips room for exploring, maybe.

That’s sure what it looks like, anyway.

The blood rushing in Lance’s ears is beginning to drown out the sound of the ship’s mechanical whirring. There’s no way of hiding how fast his heart must be beating when Keith can probably feel the vibration of it thrumming against his back.

Lance can’t tell at all what any of this is supposed to mean. He’s always considered himself fairly good at reading people, but with Keith, those lines are blurred. The guy’s a closed book with inner feelings, though easy to read in the sense that it’s obvious whenever he’s irritated or sulking about something.

The problem is that—unless there was some obvious incident—rarely does anyone ever find out _why_ he’s doing those things _._ Most of the time, even Shiro seems to be left out of the loop.

The cycle is simple. During a time of whatever inner crisis he's going through, he withdraws, becomes moodier and more sullen, refusing to speak his mind. When he and Shiro came back from the Blade of Marmora’s base, Allura’s treatment of him especially pushed him away more. It had taken weeks just to get him to laugh and hang out with them again.

With the way Keith subconsciously clings to him, this just could be another sign that he isn’t used to being touched like this—if at all. Which means this behavior is likely from far before they set out into space.

The thought of that fills Lance with a deeply felt melancholy. Involuntarily, the fingers of his free hand find their way into Keith’s hair, carding through the clumps clinging together. Soothing away whatever’s keeping Keith feeling hesitant, because his body relaxes under the familiar gesture, some tension dripping away from the more taught muscles of his sides.

“No,” comes Keith’s belated reply, small and wavering, like he isn’t sure he wants to push any words out of his mouth, “I always run pretty warm. You’re just...cold in comparison.”

Lance smothers a giggle into his skin. Without thinking much of it, he breaches past the hem of Keith’s shirt and slips his cold, clammy hand up it, slapping it directly onto the skin of his stomach.

Whatever moment they were having, is now lost.

“ _Lance,_ ” Keith shouts around a gasp, releasing a very low sort of whine that has Lance’s blood pumping faster. “What the fuck, cut it out!”

He’s wriggling underneath his grasp as Lance childishly holds him in place—a cruel trick he learned through years and years of sleeping with annoying siblings. Giving a few whimpers, Keith arches his back when he adds more pressure, and Lance can feel the way his toes curl against his shins, fighting weakly.

“You’re—you’re _freezing_ ,” Keith huffs unevenly, with a strange, unknown drop in his tone that Lance has never heard before.

The odd sounds Keith continues making has Lance’s heart skipping another beat, has it fluttering when he realizes Keith isn’t trying very hard to escape, his squirming only rubbing more and more friction between them.

As he already knows very well, Keith wasn’t exaggerating about running warm—every inch of Lance’s hand feels like it’s burning, the spread of emanating heat sinking deep into his skin. They’re sharing this touch like a necessary blood transfusion, and Lance can’t get enough of the way it reinvigorates him, brings him right back to life.

Keith is warm and soft and the perfect temperature for holding for the rest of eternity, as far as Lance is concerned.

“What?” Lance finally lets that laugh escape, unconsciously lifting his lips to Keith’s ear to whisper breathily into it, teasing, “You really are like a furnace, dude. So why don’t you warm me up?”

The silence that follows is heavy with the air of something tense, something unspoken. That tension Lance can identify now has returned in full force—the implications of what he’s said were meant to be playful, _not_ hold double-meaning. He swears with everything in him he didn’t mean to let that slide, didn’t mean for it to come out as flirtatious as it did.

It must just be the natural muscle memory that comes from being suave, too smooth from hitting on people all the time. That doesn’t help make Lance feel better about it. There’s panic, shame, that instantly hits and makes him glad for the cover of the dark and for the fact he can’t see Keith’s likely judgmental face.

Adding insult to injury, his mind is immediately wandering to all the other things Keith _could_ possibly do to warm him up besides allowing his hand to stay slipped under his shirt.

Keith goes completely still. He doesn’t move or say anything for a long time, and neither does Lance. During that time, Lance becomes painfully aware that the earlier friction caused more interest below his waist than he meant. While not fully hard, he’s sporting the embarrassing beginnings of an erection, and he pulls his crotch back the slightest bit to give it some room to breathe, so to speak. Keith’s ass feels amazing and perfect, and it’s really not helping to have it pushing against him.

What makes it all the more awkward, what makes him start questioning if Keith noticed anything weird, is that Lance can tell he’s awake. At this point, he can easily identify what Keith’s breathing sounds like when he’s sleeping, and the uneven, deep breaths indicate he’s very much still conscious.

But if it is weird, Keith doesn’t seem to want to move, doesn’t seem to be bothered enough by it that he’s trying to escape from all the strangely suggestive things. That settles Lance’s heart back out, settles him back into relaxation. Keith probably didn’t notice, and Lance is too tired and rushed with endorphins to really look more into it than it needs to be.

He wasn’t trying to seduce him—not purposefully, anyway. If Keith wanted to go, if Keith wanted to reject him, he would have already done it. Because if there’s one thing Lance knows for sure about Keith, it's that he doesn’t put up with any bullshit. He’s left when Lance has said something obnoxious more times than he can count over the years that he’s known him, in more ways than one, because Keith just doesn’t deal with annoyances well.

Or more like, at all.

So he isn’t annoyed. He’s most likely overtired, too tired to calm completely yet, and the shocking temperature of his hand probably didn’t help with that. Lance has seen that many times before. Sometimes, a person just needs to be lulled into sleep a certain way.

“I know you’re still awake, Mullet,” Lance says, low, soothing, “Look, I’m sorry I shocked you with my cold hands.”

He wriggles his fingers up and down, playing over Keith’s smooth skin as if he’s hitting the keys of a piano. It must tickle, because Keith’s shoulders shake, his stomach tightens, and he shudders somewhat. Before Lance can think of or second guess what he’s doing, for the barest second, he presses his lips in a mimic of a kiss at his nape.

Feeling suddenly bashful, Lance removes his hand, deciding that even he at times must mature, and shouldn’t continue torturing the guy when they both could use a good night’s rest. Dragging his fingers through Keith’s drying hair again is safer territory.

“It’s alright, go to sleep. I promise I won’t do it again,” Lance pauses, before adding, “Until maybe next time, that is. Short-term promise. Use it while you still can.”

Without responding, merely giving what sounds much like the annoyed grunt Lance knows and loves, Keith tugs his hand back down. A gesture much like that first night he crawled into bed with him, and was too embarrassed about asking him to keep his fingers inching across his scalp.

One minor correction. Keith tugs it down and _back under his shirt_ , pushing his palm against his stomach until Lance gets the message to keep it there.

There’s nothing else. No words, no movement. Keith is pliant, comfortable and slack beneath him. It isn’t long after that that his breathing shallows and becomes more even.

Smiling, Lance tucks his head safely into the crook of Keith's shoulder.

He lets the darkness, the gentle pushing of Keith's chest moving against his hand, and the reassuring staccato rhythm of his heart, whisk him away into a deep sleep.

 

* * *

 

It’s probably somewhere around the equivalent of 3 am, and now _Lance_ can’t sleep.

On his back, he nervously glances next to him, which isn’t helping the situation at all. It's there that Keith is, within the shimmering light of passing stars, nestled under the covers so deeply that only the top of his head can be seen.

That isn't what the main issue is. It's whatever Keith’s doing underneath those covers which is undoubtedly worse than the fact Lance is spared getting a glimpse of his face.

This isn’t what he signed up for, Lance thinks. All he said was that he’d help the moody guy get through some nightmares. Keith isn’t the one with nightmares anymore, it seems, because now he’s transferred them onto Lance.

The true living nightmare to end all nightmares.

Lance tries again in vain to shift himself away from Keith’s greedy, hot little hands, away from the death grip he’s got on his hip. It never seems to work, seems to only cause him to cling on harder.

Keith’s breathing is shallow, and he _was_ completely quiet up until a few minutes ago—before the weird sounds started coming, the ones responsible for pulling Lance out of a sound sleep. It was the whimpering that must have done it, which at least has died and retreated back into whatever hellish gay source it originated from.

However, it’s not easy to forget a sound like that—waking up to the perfectly low, arousing whine in your ear by a person you’ve been thinking is more attractive than you’d ever want to rightfully admit. It’s not easy to wake up feeling like your skin is simmering, aching in places you shouldn’t ever be aching in at such an inconvenient moment in time.

But currently Keith is—he’s straight up just—

 _Fondling_ him, is the best way Lance can describe it. If he _is_ having any sort of nightmare, it’s one in which he’s imagining that the proper way to attack any monster is to snuggle and caress it to death.

The sweaty hand not preoccupied with clutching desperately at his hip is traipsing up and down along Lance’s side, light to the point it’s tickling a little. One of Keith’s legs is thrown across his own, his knee nudging into dangerous territory. The mouth Lance can’t see, but rather can feel slightly parted and puffing out warm air at his shoulder, is driving him about equally as mad.

Parting his legs to try and move the pesky limbs away, Lance learned as soon as he awoke, was a terrible decision to make.

He’s stiffer than ever, all his muscles tensed and unsure what to make about all this. Below his waist has other ideas, worse—and quite honestly _presumptuous—_ ideas. Unfortunately, the rapidly growing hard-on he woke up with is making it perfectly clear exactly what it thinks of all this stimulation.

He’s not sure how long it’s been, but the longer he stays in this position, the harder he’s probably going to get. It’s far past uncomfortable, and there’s nothing he can force his brain to think of to flag his stupid dick’s unnecessary excitement. Thinking of the usual things, like Coran with the slipperies or the idea of Zarkon watching them somehow, isn’t even working at this point to make it all go away.

Keith touching him is just too much. It always is. Lance’s entire body is positively giddy about this, endorphins skyrocketing, dick twitching eagerly when that horrible knee jerks up into it anyway. His brain, thankfully, is distinctly _not_ okay with this, for so many reasons, and that’s the only thing keeping Lance from screaming out in frustration.

God, this is all so wrong.

He should have never carpe’d that diem.

Going back to sleep is impossible, being able to move and go take care of it in the bathroom seems impossible, but surely waking Keith up isn’t an option either. That’s just what he needs, Lance thinks with his cheeks flushing, feeling beyond embarrassed at this point. For Keith to wake up and discover it all, for him to think of him as only some pervert when all he wanted was a safe place to be.

But seriously, does he really need to make such ridiculously cute, sexy sounds? Does he really need to cling to him all night like he’s terrified of the thought of letting go?

Finally, _there’s_ a thought he can use.

Maybe Keith _is_ terrified of letting go. Maybe he does have a more mysterious, and potentially heartbreaking past that in no way would get anyone aroused at all, ever. Maybe Keith really is deprived of being touched to the point it’s coming out in weird ways while he sleeps.

Lance sucks in a breath, blows it out, counts to ten. Gingerly, he places one hand on top of Keith’s knee, and pushes it back into a place where it isn’t rubbing directly into his junk. His erection is starting to die down at those depressing thoughts.

That is, until the forced movement causes Keith to groan and shift, his mouth trailing up in favor of resting in the crook of Lance’s neck. His fingers are mapping out along the length of his torso, dipping lower, lower—

“Lance,” he says very clearly into his skin, lips brushing over his wildly racing pulse.

They’re wet, warm. _Soft_.

So much softer than Lance can remember them being upon his cheek.

Predictably, Keith’s wandering hand runs right into the head of his cock, which would admittedly be hard to miss at this point. What’s even more tragic, is that instead of shifting back up like he’d been doing, Keith just fucking _stops there,_ of all places. His palm lays still over it, lax and uncaring, like he’s claiming ownership of every part of him, and Lance just has to deal with the fact that his genitals are now also Keith’s property.

It feels entirely too good _, hands down—_ pun intended, Lance jokes to himself, trying to make this less fucked up _—_ the best form of touch he’s ever had. Resisting rattling off a moan, he’s terrified to even breathe. He freezes almost everywhere, afraid Keith might wake up from feeling the tiny, jerking movements of his dick. Afraid that he might know, and at any second, could potentially rip it off when he realizes that Lance really is the huge pervert that he is.

Something akin to a death rattle leaves Lance’s lips. Lifting the dreaded sheet with one shaking finger, he peeks beneath it out of curiosity, which is stupid, _so fucking stupid_.                   

Beneath it he finds that Keith is smiling wide, hair tangled in a heap over an exposed shoulder, his overlarge sleep shirt pulled clean off it.

“Mmm,” he breathes, sighing long and drawn out. Snuggling ever closer, hand still firmly on his crotch, and horrifyingly pressing down. “ _Mmm,_ thanks.”

Lance blinks. All the blood in his body is flowing back between his legs with renewed vigor.

‘ _Mmm, thanks’_?

Seriously, what was _that_? What the hell could Keith possibly be dreaming about to say such a thing? His hand is on his dick. Keith’s hand is on his dick, and he’s sitting there, going ‘ _mmm, thanks_ ’ about it?!

That little shit.

That’s it, he’s done. If he doesn’t get up to go take care of this, he’s going to end up doing something unspeakably awful—like just coming right there—and that would honestly be the worst thing ever.

He doesn’t care if this will wake Keith, or unsettle his dreams. The cons far outweigh the pros here. Lance wrenches off Keith’s offending hand, gets his own to his chest, and shoves as hard as he can.

Keith is forced off him, rolling back to where he should rightfully be, at his side of the bed. His eyes fly open, lashes fluttering several shadows against the small light from the window angled across his face.

Luckily, he isn’t immediately alert, is just blinking blearily for a second or two. They’re face-to-face for a few tense moments, staring into each other’s eyes. Lance’s stomach tightens, his dick jumping against it, begging to be touched again. For some reason, he can’t remember how to move.

Groggily, with his brows pulling together in confusion, Keith asks him, “Lance..?”

“Have to take a piss,” Lance squeaks, regaining common sense and scrambling from the bed, diving out of it because his very life depends on it. “Sorry. J-just go back to sleep.”

“Wait...” Keith slurs quietly, unexpectedly as Lance trips over the sheet he drags with him. “...don’t go.”

It’s not the first time he’s said it, as Keith often says a multitude of strange stuff within the throes of unconsciousness that always has Lance’s heart doing weird things, like stopping and beating out of his chest at the same time. But it _is_ the first time he’s said it with this desperate, heart-wrenching lull in it.

Small and uncertain, like he can’t fathom a reason for why Lance would ever leave him alone in his bed.

When Lance pauses, turning around in surprise, Keith’s eyes are already closed and he’s flopping over to his other side with a tiny, disgruntled hum of breath. Asleep again, apparently. It’s honestly questionable at this point if he was ever really awake.

Which is perfect, just perfect. Because after he goes to jerk off within the safety of the shower room, Lance isn’t coming back.

Definitely not tonight, but more than likely—

Maybe never.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this hc that the game was originally in Pidge’s room, but Lance eventually managed to convince her to move it to his by s4 in the same way he just snagged her headphones…..
> 
>  
> 
> Welp, here I am, at the airport updating this gay shit. Hope you all enjoyed this long, mess of an indulgent sexual tension chapter to make up for the lapse over the holiday. Next chapter I’m starting the new year getting back into the swing of things with their second trip to Munnin. Sorry about all the build up in between, but I promise these next bit of memory adventures will be well worth it :)


	11. Sweet Dreams Are Made Of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleepy and dazed, he can't find it in himself to care if Lance did see him this way, caught with his hand down his pants in his own bed.

The first time Keith wakes up, he doesn't remember.

All he knows in that following black hole of time is that Lance is making noise at him, words maybe, and moving around a lot. Waking him from a dream he reflects on before he sinks back into unconsciousness, and forgets it completely.

He and Lance had been fighting, training or something together on the deck, when Lance had somehow managed to get a hold of his knife.

“Lance, come on,” Keith had cried, trying without success to get it back from him, which made even less sense. “Just give it back.”

When Lance returned it after some teasing, Keith merely told him, “Mmm, thanks,” or something like that, while taking his knife from Lance’s outstretched hand. He gripped hard onto the hilt, before chucking it towards Lance’s stupid face again.

It was a short, dumb dream.

But then, as he’s sinking away again, it becomes unbearably warm.

Warmer.

So pleasantly _hot_.

Keith curls into the heat, feeling it against every inch of his exposed skin, on the backs of his spread thighs.

There’s a voice, calling softly into his ear from behind him. A body, pressing him down into the mattress. Lips, inching across his neck. He can’t see who it is, but he can _feel_ them, feel as they run their fingers through his hair, then over his spine.

Counting the notches in it, it seems, sweeping down vertebrae by vertebrae at an ingratiatingly slow pace. Keith is crouched on his hands and knees, back arching, sweat dripping from his forehead to his lip, rolling over it. He darts his tongue out to lick it off, whimpering, wishing whoever was taking their sweet time would hurry the fuck up.

“Please,” he says, clenching the sheets in his fists, pushing his ass back in invitation to his annoying partner. “Go faster already.”

“Please, you say,” comes the voice he knows all too well, like silk shifting against his eardrums. Ringing out more clearly, laughing at him. “Suddenly feeling polite, huh?”

“Shut up,” Keith grunts back, not having the time or patience to care for smart ass remarks right now.

He’s achingly hard, his erection bouncing against his stomach as his arms are drawn behind his back, his wrists forcibly clamped together in one hand.

Thin fingers, strong grip. Bony hips connect with his own, grinding just _so,_ and another pitiful noise falls from Keith’s lips.

A hand sweeps over his ass, brushing it, then squeezing. Spreading his cheeks, teasing him with a finger pushing lightly against his hole. A suggestion, a promise of more.

Everything’s moving faster than he can comprehend.

One of his hands is released, and Keith feels it being guided with a much colder palm. They glide together over his nipples, to his stomach. Touching in the grooves of his hip, over the straining head of his cock.

“I'm so cold…” That voice speaks up again while nipping at his neck, because Keith doubts he could stop him from talking even at a time like this. “Come on.”

All he can hear against the backdrop of his thudding heart is Lance sighing, “Why don’t you warm me up, mullet?” into his ear. Breathy and hot, with his teeth scraping, tugging at his earlobe.

There’s fingers grabbing a handful of his hair before Keith can even work through his first moan, wrenching his head back until he whines, until he's scrambling to find something to grasp onto. He’s being turned over, dragged mostly by his hair, shoved onto his back.

Lance nudges his legs farther apart, hooking his knees over his shoulders, and fits himself snugly between his thighs. With a smile, he leans down and kisses Keith, slow and wet, working his lips sloppily open against his own.

A warm hand fists around his cock, and Keith gasps, eyes slipping closed and neck snapping as Lance pulls off him. He can feel Lance hovering, just _knows_ he’s watching him intently, that deep blue never faltering as they rove over his form.

“ _Please_ ,” Keith hears himself saying again, tinny and far away sounding. He's digging his fingers into Lance’s hips bruisingly, pulling him closer. Needing to get closer, _closer_ , somehow.

“I'll keep you warm,” he promises. Keith glances up to seal the deal, getting lost in the pupils searching his face.

Lightning is on his tongue, in his fingertips.

Lance’s smirk in the dark is downright dangerous, unfurling like the petals of a flower reaching for the sun. The outline of it is quickly pressed to his neck, mouthing his need over Keith's pulse. Cocky, impatient. Maybe, deep down, just a little bit tender.

And then, Lance is pushing forward, sinking deep inside him.

Thrusting, slamming their hips together as Keith cries his pleasure to the starlit ceiling.

 

* * *

 

For the second time that night, Keith wakes up.

Alone, on his stomach, soaked with sweat and unbearably hard. With his hips slowly grinding into the mattress, he blinks in the blotchy darkness that follows consciousness, breathing heavily through his mouth.

Gasping for air in the all consuming, oppressive heat.

It's too late, and he's too tired to care where Lance might be. Too tired to care about making the effort to get off when he woke up right at the best part of his dream. No release, no Lance, and extremely horny without the strength to really move.

He might as well just turn over and go back to sleep.

Making a frustrated noise, Keith merely shucks off his shirt and pants, trying desperately to cool down. Looking around with a glaze sitting heavy over his eyes, he yawns, flinging off a layer of the sheets as well. Not noticing, in his daze, that there’s already one there on the floor.

Taking one steady breath in, he shoves a hand down his boxers and lazily palms himself, adjusting the waistband over the throb of his erection. The smell of Lance is strong, lingering everywhere in the bed, sticking to Keith’s nose and jump starting pleasant memories.

He toys with the thought of what it might be like if Lance were to come back now and see him in this desperate, disheveled state, all while letting his hand simply sit over himself, brushing idly over the weeping head of his cock.

There's no energy for more than that. If only someone else could take care of this for him.

Sleepy and dazed, he can't find it in himself to care if Lance _did_ see him this way, caught with his hand down his pants in his own bed. Can't find it in him to care about why that would probably be wrong. He can only think about how dirty of a thing that would be to do to actually get off here, about what kind of reaction Lance might have if he walked in right in the middle of it.

On some strange whim in this twilight, Keith almost hopes it happens.

His heart rate is settling down despite everything, the sheen of sweat beginning to cool across his flushed skin. His eyelids are way too heavy. Slipping his hand from his pants, Keith rolls over, tucking himself into the leftover warmth from Lance’s side of the bed, like a cat craving the best sunspot in the house.

Lance must just be in the bathroom, he thinks, feeling the weight of drowsiness push his eyelids down like some invisible god coaxing him back into dreamland.

It isn't long before he falls into a fitful sleep again.

 

* * *

 

Things have changed.

Keith doesn’t like the way his chest feels lately because of it, how the deep, unsettling notion that he’s done something horribly wrong, sits and festers within him. Something that’s possibly caused irreplaceable damage between he and Lance.

The mystifying thing about it all, is that he can’t figure out what it is that he did.

Keith woke up alone the other morning. The bed was cold, some sheets were on the floor. As if Lance took off sometime hours before, like some monster was after him or something.

And now, he’s barely even been _looking_ at him.

It’s been the same way for a few days—Lance avoiding him whenever he steps into a room, Lance stuttering out some excuse for why they can’t sleep together that night. During missions and battles, their banter has been kept to a minimum, with Lance not even going out of his way to say much of anything outside of general team communication.

It leaves a hollow, cold feeling sitting, spreading inside of Keith’s stomach. Twisting it, worming its way up to the rest of his body, until he thinks his heart, soul, and mind might become entirely consumed by the pain of it.

This is more his own fault than it is Lance’s. He was growing attached, too fast. He pushed past those alarms in his brain telling him not to fall like this, but he didn’t listen.

This is what he gets for being that foolish.

Since both of their beds were potentially acceptable places to sleep now, Keith wasn’t sure how to progress that next night after their team-building exercise. He attempted to keep things running smoothly by going to Lance’s bedroom first, still under the uneasy assertion that maybe Lance falling asleep in his bed was just a fluke because of how tired he was.

Things had been good, then. Lance was welcoming. Not very talkative, but he moved over out of habit, allowing Keith under his sheets without any issues. He didn’t press him about why he’d suddenly gotten cold feet during the exercise earlier, or say a single teasing thing about any of it. So Keith assumed maybe the cheek kiss wasn’t a problem, or wasn’t remembered.

Of course, then he had to just ruin it all by selfishly asking Lance to hold him before they fell asleep. He just had to assume that that's what Lance wanted, as he was unable to get the pleasant sensation of cuddling him out of his head since he woke up to discover them intertwined together.

Lance had been sweet about it, obliging his inappropriate request anyway. He’d done it, and it felt _amazing_. Keith couldn’t get it out of his head. The feeling of his hand tracing over the sensitive skin of his stomach, the soft, warm lips he swore made contact with the back of his neck right before he drifted off into the most satisfying, fulfilling sleep of his life.

The way his body tingled with electricity, how he wished Lance would have kept moving his hand to touch him in other places. The anticipation he felt waiting for something more had him so on edge he almost didn’t think he’d be able to sleep.

But then, the embrace coaxed him, lulled him right into it.

His dreams were a hazy mix of indecent things, but Keith wasn’t ashamed by them, because that was to be expected. Dreams didn’t hold deeper meaning, just deeper desires that he’s already well aware of are there.

Nevertheless, it _has_ made things slightly more awkward on his end whenever he catches a glimpse of Lance staring at him from across the room, because the image of Lance staring at him from above as he slowly sank into him, isn’t one he’s likely to forget anytime soon.

The heat that fills his cheeks when their eyes meet, the way he can’t face that knowing, bright blue. As much as he wants Lance to still come to his room every night, he wonders if that would even be a smart move at this point.

He doesn’t know, if he feels that thrum of energy that comes with Lance’s touch again, if he’ll be able to take a step back and not act on these urges anymore. Sexually, he’s never been able to show much restraint.

The worries, the cares about the bigger picture—it’s not something he’s often been able to keep in hindsight. That's something he’s struggled with all his life, not having the patience for anything other than instant gratification.

Always doing things on a whim without thinking of what comes next.

What comes next, has never been that important to him. It’s what he gets in the moment, what he can do in the moment, that matters. Whether it be sacrificing himself for the greater good, or spending a night with a stranger, his stance remains the same. Living in the now is key.

You can’t wait around for someone else to take care of things for you.

As his mentor and good friend, Shiro was the only one that ever futilely tried to teach him otherwise, but by the time he showed up, Keith was already well grown into and familiarized with that mindset.

He never had anyone else, as he doesn’t factor in the short time living with his father as counting for much of anything worth remembering, being too young at the time to have nothing but a ghostly reel of images of him. He never had anyone who bothered to care to teach him concepts like waiting, before taking charge. He never had anyone who told him that caring for himself first, was important.

The thing was, is that he never had help. If he wanted something done, he always had to do it himself.

All of this makes Keith wonder, though. It makes him wonder if this is completely his fault, if maybe he did or said something in his sleep that could have revealed those lewd fantasies he’d been imagining. He knows he woke up alone sometime during the night, but he can’t recall exactly how long his dream was and at what point in it Lance actually left.

Now _that_ thought is distinctly embarrassing, and would be hard to explain away.

Which isn’t ideal, considering they have to return to Munnin today for their next session. Or maybe that’s more of a relief, Keith thinks, knowing that at least then, Lance will be forced into interacting with him.

He dips his spoon into his food goo, trying to force himself to eat, thinking of why it has to be this way. Why he’s getting so riled up over someone like Lance, a guy who until just recently, spent more time poking fun at him and starting fights for no reason than he did trying to be understanding.

Maybe it’s because of the breach of that gap, these sudden tender moments between them, that’s getting him worked up. Maybe it’s the fact that when Lance acts more maturely, when he stops trying to go so hard about petty things that don’t fucking matter, he’s really a great person to be around. Thoughtful, kind, and funny.

He talks honestly when he gives up the facade of being annoying, which Keith has grown to respect him much more for. He could listen to Lance’s soothing voice for days, could find him more bearable when he speaks, if that’s the way he’s deciding to go about it.

When he knows something serious is going on, he doesn't pry, but gently supports in a way that has Keith falling into useless putty whenever he's in his arms. Even back when Keith revealed he was part Galra, Lance was one of the only ones in the group to barely react, instantly accepting him as if it was no big deal.

There’s another thing that gnaws at Keith from the back of his mind. It could also be because Lance isn’t bad looking—although, Keith has never thought otherwise about _that._

The scrawny, gangly type hadn’t been something he really considered before Lance. But he’s undeniably pretty, with chiseled features and a decent amount of hidden muscle. His freckles alone have wrapped Keith in a deep mezmerization at how adorable he can be.

There isn’t anything more he’d desire right now than to get his hands on that soft skin, than to press against his lean figure and just _take_.

Or more like in his dream—having _Lance_ do the taking.

Keith curls his fingers harder around his spoon, digging crescents into his palms, flushing just thinking about it.

He always thought Lance had a cute, ‘guy-next-door’ kind of vibe to him. The kind of presence of charm that would make him an excellent person to bring home to your parents, if you were into that sort of thing. He was someone who obviously knew how to handle people, and had grown up around many who loved and adored him.

People always seemed to flock to him, as if there was something about him that just exuded friendliness, as if his comforting nature was something he wore and could be seen like a glowing beacon upon that shitty cargo jacket.

Keith sets his spoon down. Wipes a napkin across his lips, feeling a twist of knots in his stomach.

He has no place there, he thinks.

He has no place trying to belong in that bubble of excitement and acceptance that comes with knowing and befriending a person like Lance. With a magnetism like that, there’s no room for him inside the heart of someone who could have their pick of literally anyone in the universe.

Someone better, someone who wasn’t this irrevocably screwed up inside.

Keith pushes himself up from the table, shoulders shrugging against an invisible weight. Sets his eyes to the stars outside as he walks down the observation deck, to the monitors twinkling and buzzing as they show the team interacting happily together in various parts of the ship.

He’s here, alone with his thoughts, where he belongs.

That’s just the way it has to be.

 

* * *

 

Their return to Munnin is about as silent as their last trip back.

The only difference is, is that Lance isn’t the one who’s obviously upset now.

Avoiding Keith had been nearly impossible considering they had to at least interact for Voltron, more so as they’re beginning to set their first moves on the metaphorical space chess board in place to attack Zarkon. On top of it all, Lance has the feeling he’s been doing more damage than good in the long run by making contact minimal outside of that, as Keith was even lackluster in his attempt to fight for the rights to pilot the podship.

Recently, he’d gone back to fashionably sulking off in corners of rooms by himself instead of the slow gravitating he’d been doing hanging out with the team more. When they’d been approached by Coran to see if they were ready to leave, Lance overheard Keith asking if they could take Red.

Whether to take the tense edge off of their interactions by running off steam piloting her, or for some petty revenge to make this trip all the more nauseating by throwing Red into hyper drive, Lance imagines the reason had to be at least one of the two. 

Much to Keith’s disappointment—and alternatively, Lance’s relief—Coran reiterated that he didn’t want to cause any potential blips on the Galra’s monitors, or draw any attention to them as they were to do this without any distractions.

Being drawn into a sudden fight in which they'd probably have to call for backup, would be stupid beyond belief, and could also give away their cover on the true nature of these trips. Combined with the fact that they needed to be keeping a low profile regardless, the lion option was unquestionably out.

There’s something Lance feels like Coran’s not being completely open with them about still, but he can’t place what exactly it might be. The explanation makes sense enough that he can’t rationalize his paranoia.

Now, here they are. Silently journeying through space with as much in common as they might have thought they had a few weeks ago.

Being back to normal has never felt more wrong.

Beyond bored, Lance taps his hand upon the glass of the windshield for about the tenth time, glancing over as Keith silently shifts the stick as they make their descent. Without that combative, antagonizing spark, Lance had relented him the controls. It wasn’t any fun if he couldn’t playfully fight over something without getting that gratifying rise out of Keith first.

“Preparing for landing,” Keith announces, out of force of habit. Dropping pressure levels, showing off by jolting forward more sharply and into a dive that seems unnecessary when they hit that first wave of rough, gravitational atmosphere.

Snorting, Lance leans back in his seat, preparing for the G-forces to come. “I can see. It’s just us, Keith.”

Keith doesn’t spare him a glance, mouth a grim line as he snaps back, “Yeah, but I was imagining it wasn’t.”

There’s no questioning it. They’ve backpedaled. By denying Keith access to his bed without any good reason, he’s definitely touched a serious nerve. An unforeseen consequence, but it had to be done.

Lance can’t trust himself anymore, can’t trust that he’s not going to break soon and just take what he wants from Keith the next time he so much as brushes his bare legs against him.

Not that that thought isn’t appealing.

Letting himself lose control, letting his fingers crawl more boldly up the expanse of Keith’s chest just so he can hear that weak rattle of breath again, those gentle, sensitive gasps—well, of course he _wants_ to go there. Who _wouldn’t_ , he thinks.

Keith is _hot_. Like unbelievably, ridiculously hot in every aspect a person can be hot in. He’s talented, smart, as cute as he is sexy. Separating the fact that he has the most incredible body, Lance can admit he has an honorable level of personal self-discipline and determination he didn’t know could fit into such a generally small package.

The dedication, the fiery fight in him that he has for the cause, is far past the line of admirable and flat out _impressive_.

There’s also that mysterious, stoically sad sort of edge about him that draws people in like a moth to a dangerous flame. Draws Lance in, until he wishes Keith would just put him out of his misery and burn his wings already.

He’s everything Lance has simultaneously envied and admired in a person for far too long.

And he wants to know more. Wants to be a _part_ of more, wants a permanent place there, in Keith’s life.

Considering they’re on strict supervision to eventually work well enough together to pass this team-building exercise, Lance isn't sure if toeing that line is something he should attempt.The point is that everyone is counting on them, is using that as an example so they can move forward safely and attack Zarkon with the comfort of knowing there’s no bad blood or behavior left between them.

Jeopardizing that, isn’t just stupid—it’s downright _dangerous_.

However, it doesn’t mean Lance has to like it. Because he doesn’t. He really, really doesn’t like being the responsible one here.

Sucking back a breath, Lance lets it out slowly. Aiming his glare at the desolate scenery of Munnin as they draw nearer into its orbit, he sighs.

He doesn’t give Keith the satisfaction of an answer. It would be pointless.

Instead, he brazenly entertains himself for the rest of the trip imagining how Keith might react beneath his touch in other ways, because it’s an amazing thing, a satisfying thought, and it’s not like there’s anything wrong with pretending or fantasizing. Not to mention, Keith didn’t seem repulsed by that experimental touch the last night they slept together, and was completely responsive to it in a way Lance isn’t entirely convinced was actually that innocent.

He could have a chance with Keith, in certain ways. It might be possible. That’s what’s souring his mood most, outside of Keith’s cold demeanor towards him now, because he can’t ever find out for sure. Keith _could_ actually be open to at least _something_ more physical than they’ve already been doing, and Lance _could_ be enjoying the perks of a fuckbuddy type relationship like that at this very moment if he wasn’t so dedicated to the cause.

Space sucks. War sucks. Sometimes, he really just wants to say fuck it all, pack up into Blue in the middle of the night, and fly home. Going to get the memories of his family dragged back up again at a time like this, well—none of this is ideal or as appealing as the thought of Keith squirming under his grasp in all the ways he could ever want.

With Keith pressed against him every night, his restraint is very thin these days, made worse by waking up to him touching him like that. About as thin as the strings of his heart, the ones that wither and break every time he thinks about acting more on these urges only to be met with imaginary rejection—something he just doesn’t think he’s built to handle, either, as that possibility still very much exists.

Or ever, really. His life’s been full of enough of that already.

He just never thought it’d be that big a deal, taking a short break for him to get better control of his hormones, for him to take some time trying to push Keith back away. He hopes that this doesn’t backfire more, that this isn’t going to affect Voltron, because he still believes they’ve come too far at this point for that.

When they land, Keith surprises him by not getting out of the cockpit as soon as he turns the engine off. The impending silence that surrounds them is as empty as it is tense.

Without looking at him, Keith mutters, “Sorry. That was mean.” His chest deflates, obviously struggling to add, “I don’t...mind being here with you.”

Bowing his head to his lap, he stares down at his feet. Annoyance completely leaving him, Lance puts a hand to his shoulder, lips creasing into a reassuring smile when Keith looks back up, startled by the touch.

“It’s alright, I know,” Lance says softly back to him, any grudges falling back into the ground when he sees the worried way Keith bites his lip. “Let’s just get this over with, okay buddy?”

“Yeah,” Keith agrees, reflecting his smile. He shakes himself away, dislodging Lance’s hand, wiping his smile immediately back into a frown the second he thinks Lance isn’t paying attention anymore.

He is, though. He is, because he’s always paying attention to Keith.

They don’t talk about any of it. Not as they traipse up the mountain passes, head towards the large, dark stone door with that curious inscription written across it. Once they reach it, their eyes rise to the gold words glinting in the sunlight, the frigid wind wildly blowing around their hair through their helmets.

When he’s about to knock, Lance grabs Keith’s hand this time, pulling them together until their shoulders are touching.

He knocks. Keith’s fingers slip between his own.

Feeling the ground drop out beneath them, he gives Keith’s hand a squeeze.

And then they fall.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keith played himself getting all subconsciously hot and bothered from accidentally touching Lance in his sleep.
> 
> And he could care less, I guess ;)


	12. Mnemonic Devices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sparti pauses. Huffs another exasperated sigh. Stretches his arm out, and wordlessly points.
> 
> Neither of them are expecting to find a prone Munninian, laying on top of the table.

Inside the igloo-whatever where they’re supposed to see Kevin, Keith and Lance are met only by a disgruntled looking Sparti, who lets them in and then dramatically slams the door behind them. He’s cleaner today, but appears more irked, like he’s just drank an entire gallon of lemon juice.

Lance raises an eyebrow as Sparti wordlessly leads them down a hallway, into a common room of sorts that they passed last time. The threadbare wooden furniture inside is as ancient and worn as the ones in the other rooms, but it’s cosy, with another fire crackling in a large, iron hearth that fills about half the room.

It’s cramped with many knick-knacks and strange alien things on the shelves that line the walls, things that are blinking and some that are moving with differently colored lights. There’s an earthen, soil rich smell sticking, hanging in the air. All around the room, various oils and medicine bottles with foreign script running across faded labels are stacked on top of each other.

To Lance’s right, over a crooked mantle, is an old portrait of what appears to be a woman. Upon closer inspection, he can see that it’s a young Munninian with a tawny complexion, and long, ivory hair curling around her face over a headdress of fine feathers. There’s a splotch of white behind her that Lance isn’t sure is an erasure of color or another part of her body.

Squinting, Lance can tell there’s someone else in the picture, as the woman has her arm around a blotchy schmear of a person. The painting is a bit too faded, the oils having degraded long ago. Lance leans towards it, attempting to get a closer look at the subjects.

But as much as Lance would love to snoop around and explore, his attention is abruptly drawn away when he hears a loud crash.

“Oof,” Keith grunts, the air leaving him as a massive, hair covered creature pounces onto him excitedly, licking him with a tongue about the size of his face.

They fall backwards together with the force the thing runs into him, and it continues its attack as Lance laughs at the scene, at the disoriented look on Keith’s face. By the time Sparti has reached them, Keith is merely sitting in shock with the creature in his lap, helmet knocked off, his hair sticking up at odd angles from saliva.

“Down, down!” Sparti barks out at the cujo monstrosity, tugging on a collar around its neck. “Stupid idiot, come here.”

The thing immediately stops, hanging its head at Sparti’s reprimand, and slinks over to him. It’s similar to a dog, now that Lance can really look at it, if a dog were bred to be more like a dopey, furry dinosaur. It’s probably the closest thing to a wooly mammoth he will ever see, minus the tusks, and with a matching Munninian type tail that’s forked. It has gigantic floppy ears—three of them to be exact—and lethally pointy teeth hanging over prominent jowls.  

It has to be nearly ten times the size of Sparti.

The thing kneels in front of him, as if in apology of its disobedient behavior. Lance and Keith look on as the kid in question scrambles onto its back. They watch as the creature takes him higher as it rises to its full height, causing them to be the ones craning their necks up to stare at Sparti.

“Kevin ain’t in today. He got called in across the badlands for...more important stuff. And things.” Sparti doesn’t spare them a glance as he speaks, steadily stroking a clawed hand through the fur upon the weird creature’s back. Distracted, like his mind is off elsewhere. “I’d take care of it, but he says I’m not old enough yet, which is stupid. So you gotta see Skit.”

The blank looks must be apparent on their faces, because when Sparti lifts his head at their silence, he sighs, “Didn’t Kevin tell you anything useful? It’s his assistant. Second in command, basically.” To the side, he mumbles as he kicks his feet up upon the creature’s gigantic back, “And I’m just the secretary at this point, I guess.”

“Aw, what?” Lance exclaims, “What kind of place are you guys running here? Don’t you think as paladins, we should take priori—”

Without warning, the creature huffs as if their conversation is exhausting it, and flops to the ground, which shakes beneath them in response. Had Sparti not been holding on tightly, he probably would have been launched clean off.

Keith shushes Lance with an elbow to his side. He watches as Keith lowers down into a kneel, so that he’s eye level with Sparti again, though he’s staying at a skeptical distance from the creature.

“Sounds good,” he tells the kid, and he smiles, is actually _smiling_ to a stranger. “Where can we find him?”

Sparti turns up his beak. “Beats me. Probably off burning something down somewhere.”

Lance knows for a fact that if his mother were here, she would be punishing this kid’s sore attitude in an instant. He doesn’t understand why Sparti has to be this obtuse when he barely knows them, considering most of the kids he’s had to watch at least give the consideration of saving that kind of pettiness for family members. But after observing the way Keith continues to smile gently, Lance decides that maybe he could be being too harsh on the kid.

He is only a kid, after all. A kid with no family around that they know of who might be able to set him straight, in any case. It is odd, he thinks. What a child, whether an apprentice or not, is doing at a place like this where the two adults never seem to be around to watch him, leaves Lance with more questions than he has answers.

Although he stays crouched on the ground, Keith seems at a loss for what to do next, his eyes flitting up to Lance as if calling for backup.

“That’s a cool...pet you got there,” Lance attempts to help Keith out, pointing at the creature. “Does it have a name?”

Redirecting the conversation is a trick he’s learned to distract and get kids to open up more, as there’s nothing more useful than keeping them happy and preoccupied from something else that might be going on.

And it didn’t hurt when he used it often to foil his niece and nephew from asking about watching a certain TV show for the millionth time that day.

Sparti looks up to him when he says it. Staring, as if he’s said something weird. There’s a moment of hesitation before his feathers puff up in indignation, and then he says in a clipped tone, “It’s not just a _pet_ , it’s a _Dinavian hound_. They’re specially bred to be awesome.”

Perhaps the kid is just lonely, Lance wonders, because the question launches him into an excited explanation of the hounds—where they’re from, what quadrant you can buy them in, as though he and Keith would be interested in just going out and randomly getting a dinosaur dog to bring back to Voltron.

Apparently, it’s a very lucrative universal business designed to breed the perfect animals to protect their owners, though Lance can see nothing particularly vicious when he looks over at the creature, who’s simply licking the floor and gently being aware of Sparti on his back.

He takes in what he can, but Lance finds himself getting distracted after not too long into the conversation, eyeing the portrait from where he’s standing. The angle he’s at makes it appear as if the woman’s eyes are following him, almost.

He can’t place why it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. Why he feels drawn to something about it.

Against everything he was expecting, Keith on the other hand, continues being interested and highly focused on what Sparti is saying. Nodding his head, giving one word affirmations that he’s still listening.

Eventually, Sparti ends his long winded speech with, “And so, his name is Cornbread. To you guys, anyway. His real name might be hard for you to pronounce.”

Lance blinks himself out of his wandering thoughts. Keith looks up at him, at a loss for words all of a sudden. Neither of them really have the heart to say anything about it, to ask just why their question had to be answered with something so weird.

Sparti frowns during their silence, his fingers raking through Cornbread’s hair—and oh god, Lance is never going to be able to get used to thinking something like that.

“Um, someone told me that was like, a really cool thing on your home planet, Earth,” Sparti explains, probably wondering why they’re sharing awkwardly perplexed looks.

When Keith muffles a laugh into his hand, and Lance can’t help but smile, realization seems to dawn over Sparti that he’s been had.

“It isn’t, is it?”

Chuckling, Lance bends down to join Keith on the floor. “No, buddy, but we can play along that it is.”

“Don’t try and butter me up, nerd,” Sparti snaps, and Lance puts a hand to his chest as if incredibly offended, gasping at his smart response. By this point, Keith is clutching his stomach as he collapses into a fit of harder laughter, which makes it even worse.

Sparti points to Keith. “You. Your name’s Keith, right?”

Mutely, Keith nods, trying to get a hold of himself. Sparti hops off Cornbread, sweeping his hand forward in a gesture for them to follow him into what looks to be an adjoining kitchen.

“I’ll bring you to Skit. And I _guess_ your friend can come, if he’s nice this time.”

The smirk that graces Keith’s lips is painfully smug, and he glances at Lance through the fringe of his bangs, eyelashes casted low. “Yeah, he can be nice sometimes when he puts his mind to it, so I think it’s okay if we bring him.”

“Why are you guys so mean?” Lance whines, looking down at Sparti with his arms spread, “How can so much meanness fit into such a small body?!”

They both shrug in unison, and Lance hangs his head, following them in defeat.

This is just what he needs. Double the snarky people poking fun at him.

 

* * *

 

Sparti doesn’t take them far.

He pushes through a saloon styled door, which flips open and shut behind them with a grating creak. The kitchen is even smaller and more cramped, with only enough room for the tiniest of tables and minimal counter space, crowded with more spice jars and dirty dishes than even Lance remembers seeing in his own small home growing up.

Sparti pauses. Huffs another exasperated sigh. Stretches his arm out, and wordlessly points.

Neither of them are expecting to find a prone Munninian, laying on top of the table.

This must be Skit, Lance gathers, trying to wrap his head around exactly what he’s looking at. The guy in question appears to be in a deep slumber, half of him slumped rather precariously over the edge. His legs and arms haphazardly thrown in various positions, which in no way looks comfortable at all.

It isn’t any of those things, exactly, that has them sharing looks of confusion, has Keith whispering for him to do something.

It’s that the guy has _wings_. He has large, black, and totally _awesome_ bat-like wings folded around him like a blanket.

Still bearing the devilish pointed horns and beaked noses of Sparti and Kevin, which is only adding to their confusion, he doesn’t appear to even have a tail. Instead of feathers, he has black, humanoid hair plaited in a messy bun around the horns, tucked onto the top of his head. There’s an empty bottle with a strange label grasped loosely in one of his hands, a bit of drool gathered to the side of his mouth.

After a silent, but intensely gestured bit of arguing in which they settle who will have to wake him with a few rounds of rock, paper, scissors—which Lance loses, because he’s up against Keith, so of fucking course he does—Lance tiptoes forward. Carefully, he pokes Skit in the shoulder.

The strange Munninian groans, rolls over. The bottle clatters to the floor, his wings twitching this way and that, almost hitting Lance in the face. Jumping back, Lance watches with amusement as the guy pulls himself up into a slouched, but basically sitting position on his elbows.

The overlarge tunic he’s wearing is rumpled and worn, with patches in a few places. His eyes appear to be yellow as they flutter open, and would be intimidating, were they looking at them less half-lidded and curiously bloodshot.

“Whoa,” Lance gasps, gaze raising along with Keith’s, staring at the expanse of Skit’s wings as they unfold completely. He clasps his hands in front of him, bouncing on his heels in pure, unadulterated excitement. “You...you have _wings_! Super cool. Can you fly? If you can, can I watch you fly? Or like, come with you?”

Skit’s eyes widen, and then he's springing up from the table. “Holy shit, I have _what_?”

Before Keith or Lance can make sense of that, Skit is turning around, craning his neck to look behind him. He scrambles off the table almost as if in panic, his wings fluttering out and in. They’re crimson tinted on the inside, and Lance imagines they’d probably look even cooler in the sunlight, if that’s even a thing the Munninian’s ever experience down here.

“Oh. Yeah, those,” Skit sighs in apparent relief when he sees them, “Yeah, I’ve always had those.”

Keith raises one eyebrow dubiously. “Um, do you guys not usually call them wings, or..?”

Skit offers only a shrug in return. “Naw, we do.”

He lets that hang there as he stretches his arms towards the ceiling, exercising his wings in a similar manner, letting them fold in and out, in and out. A gentle breeze blows with their movement, swirls around the two of them. Lance gets a brief view of Keith’s adorably wrinkled forehead as it scatters his bangs away from his face.

“Okay, but you’re not asking the most important thing here, Keith—Skit, can you _fly_?”

Lance needs to know, because that’s a priority. And also, because it makes Keith visibly annoyed.

“You’re really hung up on that, huh.” Skit laughs, propping a hand on his hip, looking badass as he leans back against the table with his wings. “Where are you guys from again? Do your people not have wings there?”

“Not...on them, no,” Keith says, quietly, still seeming a bit overwhelmed by this situation. He’s got his arms crossed tight across his chest, a gesture Lance notices he seems to do out of being uncomfortable as much as he does for some sort of comfort.

“Aunt Nem says they’re from Earth!” Sparti pops up between them all, surprising Lance as he waves his arms animatedly. Excited, like a normal kid should be. “She was pretty happy about it, ‘cause—”

The atmosphere seems to change in a flash. Sparti must realize he spoke too soon, because he clamps his mouth shut, and he and Skit have a strange stare down. Similar to the one he and Kevin had the last time they were there.

Honestly, Lance would love to know exactly what kind of crazy mind battles they get up to in their spare time. It must be fun, but at the same time, probably annoying to have someone constantly poking around in your brain. It’s a power that he can’t imagine would lead to anything good if his nosy little siblings were able to just literally ‘outbrain’ him at any moment through an argument.

Eventually, Skit sighs out loud, “I can work around those blocks later, you know. Man, when the heck did you go over there to see her? That’s dangerous!” His irises dim from red to orange. “You’re supposed to stay here, little dude. You know better.”

Sparti inspects his claws. The very epitome of standoffish and defiant. “Yeah, and maybe if you hadn’t been passed out for like, two straight quintants, you would have noticed I’d gone.”

Lance and Keith quickly jump back when Skit’s wings open to their full length, which spans almost the whole width of the room. There’s a renewed ring of red filling in his eyes.

“You shit, I’ve only been sleeping for a few vargas. Kevin was right here the whole time! He just left this morning, seriously, how and when did you get out?”

Keith whips his head to follow the back and forth bickering. Up and down, side to side. It leaves Lance wondering if he’s having the same thoughts—that maybe this is what they look like to other people when they fight.

Sparti casts his eyes more abashedly to the ground. The color in them is vacantly gray. His voice becomes softer, sadder, and Lance feels a little bit bad for him even though he has no idea what’s going on.

“I miss them,” he grumbles, “You can’t stop me from missing them.”

That seems to end whatever that was about. Skit drops his arms. The color in his eyes fades, whisps away like the strands of disappearing smoke, to a deep blue. He reaches down, and affectionately ruffles the feathers on Sparti’s head.

“Whatever, my head’s killing me. Don’t have time for this shit. Just, give me a minute with these clients, alright? Fuck, Kevin’s gonna kill me when he finds out.”

Watching with interest, Lance follows the sweep of his wings into the air, follows the twitch of them as Skit conjures a holo-notepad up in front of him.

“Okay, here we go. First of all, chicks always have wings, so there’s nothing to get excited about.” The words ‘ _chicks=wings’_ scrawls across the pad, like some invisible hand is writing upon it. _“_ You probably haven’t seen them around because this subsection only contains a few. Try the next quadrant over, and it’s like a super common sight.”

Slowly, Keith nods. He glances over to Lance, as if checking to see his reaction.

“Okay,” Lance says, “That makes sense. But then why do you—”

Skit puts a finger to his lips. The text quickly changes into ‘ _shut up because I’m getting to that_ ’. Heat fills Lance’s cheeks. Keith is laughing, softly, and Lance yet again feels like he’s being ganged up on.

“Next, sometimes us inbetweeners have them, too, and that’s what I am. I can’t be defined by any characteristics separating what’s a dude or a chick. I just am what I am.”

Letters are warping and twisting, slipping to read, ‘ _I can have whatever I want, because I’m cooler than everyone else’_. Sparti, who’d been silently pouting up until then, begins giggling almost uncontrollably.

“And lastly, no. I can’t fly, which is like, a real bummer.” Skit runs a claw along the tip of one of his wings as he curls it around him. ‘ _Life’s a bitch, my dudes_ ’ hangs in the air. “Was born with a defect, so they’re just pretty decoration. There, that’s all you need to know about that. Question time is over, because I have something I need to do.”

Skit turns his attention from them. He’s flickering it over to a crowded sink, crammed with a multitude of strange plants hanging above it. The holo-notepad explodes into a fine mist of non-existence.

“Hey kid, by the way, you’re a real cutie,” he yawns without any further explanation, wobbling towards the sink.

He tries with trembling hands to fill a glass of water when he gets there, shaking more liquid out than he’s actually getting in. Finally, he manages enough, but instead of lifting it to his lips, he pours it into one of the potted plants.

There’s a jealousy, an anger that burns deep in Lance’s veins then. If Skit is talking about him, that’s only natural of course, since he’s a catch and he knows it. But if he’s talking about Keith...he’s not sure he can be as forgiving.

“Which one of us are you talking…” Lance trails off before he can finish that thought, because it’s clear by the way Skit strokes his finger over the leaves of one of the plants, cooing about how pretty it is, that the answer is neither.

When he turns back to them, he’s wearing a ridiculously goofy grin. With something knowing, something mischievous lying within the purple of his irises. “What? Blue guy, you look like someone just spat in your face.”

Keith continues to look on in confusion, while Lance feels like sinking into the ground. “Uh, nothing,” he says quickly.

He's more relieved by that than he means to be. If Skit was hitting on him, he could have just flirted back to carry out his Pidge-is-totally-wrong test. But if it was Keith, he could have potentially lost the guy. As much as he hates to admit it, Keith is probably prettier than he is, in the long run. He's surprised aliens don't flock to him regularly, but at the same time, it makes his jealousy not as strong to know there's little to no competition.

As far as he knows, anyway.

Skit nudges Sparti with one of his wings, and addresses him again. “Little dude. One, nice to see you up and about and acting friendlier. Two, don’t think you’re getting out of that conversation we just had, because I’m dealing with that later. And three, what’d Kevin leave for us as instructions?”

Sparti steps forward. He conjures another floating notepad into the air, leaning to inspect it as if he’s having trouble reading the words already lying on it. “Well, it says here he wants them to return back to the Northern Hall Immersion Center—”

Reaching with one hand, Skit slices a claw through the holo-notebook, and it scrambles the screen into fragmented pieces. “Yeah, I’m gonna stop you there. We’re not doing any of that shit. My hangover is not having that.”

He waves his hand through it until Sparti giggles, and folds it back away.

“Nope, we’re gonna use disconnection, not immersion. The lazy melder’s quick fix to a very poor situation.” Holding up one finger, his eyes sweep over them, filtering in purple again. “I have a _feeling_ that will be way more useful than loping around in some paradise or nightmare somewhere, anyway.”

He turns to Keith. “For you, especially. I think it will help.”

Keith stares off like he hasn’t quite heard him, fingers fiddling around with his bayard. He doesn’t look to Lance for reassurance this time, though Lance wishes he could offer him some.

Skit assigns Sparti to some task pertaining to one of their other clients, telling him to regroup up with them in another room later. Though he rolls his eyes, he turns around without argument and takes off with his tail swishing in restrained anger.

Once he’s gone, Skit ushers them away from the kitchen and back into the common room, offering them to sit upon some lumpy, uncomfortable looking couches. When Lance apprehensively sits down, he finds that the thing is actually surprisingly comfortable.

Keith sinks into the cushions next to him. Close, with the armor of their thighs touching.

“I don’t work the same way as Kevin,” Skit begins to explain, “So don’t go getting used to his ‘ _oh, we need to be super careful and protective of memories_ ’ schtick, yada yada yada. That old coot is traditional and a stickler when it comes to rules.”

“Um,” says Lance.

Keith shifts uncomfortably. He blurts, “That sounds bad.”

Skit puts a hand up, closing his eyes. Proudly pushing his chest out, crossing his arms, as he falls backwards to another chair and lets his wings cushion himself when he lands.

“I mean to say, not that I don’t have morals of my own. But the system could use an update, if you know what I mean. Especially with how much rarer our type are becoming.” Waving a flippant hand, he leans back in his seat. “Drastic times call for drastic measures, and all that bullshit. So if I poke and prod a bit more than you’re comfortable with, that’s a good thing. That means we’re getting somewhere.”

Skit observes Lance for a moment, calculating, attentive in a way that’s markedly different than Kevin. Invasive—that’s how his gaze feels as his pupils expand, irises coloring in purple with a twinge into his mind that makes Lance feel instantly violated.

“Huh,” he says, a knowing grin curling his lips. “Case in point, does red dude know about _that_?”

“About w-what?”

Lance feels the burn of shame against his cheeks, trying with everything in him not to look at Keith. There’s no telling what exactly Skit could be talking about, especially with the fresh embarrassment he has about the last night they slept together.

Keith’s fingers trailing down his sides, brushing his skin. His lips on his neck, mouthing over his pulse. So soft. So warm—

No, no, not here, not now. He definitely _cannot_ think of any of that shit at all with this awful mind-reading birdtilian in front of him. Lance clenches his hands into fists at his side, willing his face to look as inert as possible, though he’s sure the panic is very clear on it.

That used to be his only downfall, he remembers his mother telling him once. The fact that he wore all his emotions on his sleeve, and wasn’t as good an actor as he always assumed he was. He never really believed that, until now, because Skit doesn’t look like he’s buying any of the bullshit he’s trying to sell.

Kicking up his feet onto an ottoman, Skit gives a pointed glance in Keith’s direction, before telling Lance, “I can’t get a good read on it like this without messing about with blocks, which to be honest, I don’t have the energy or motivation to want to bother with. But I’m sure it’s of importance.”

They stare each other down for a few seconds. Lance wishes he could sink into the ground—there’s no doubting that Keith’s full attention is on him now.  

“I seriously don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lance keeps his tone abrupt, final, “And it’s rude, you know. Poking around in my brain like you think you know more about it than me!”

Skit doesn’t look offended. If anything, he’s leaning in more, looking doubly intrigued. He gestures for Lance to come over, and Lance excuses himself, making it across the room as Keith gripes about them acting like he isn’t there.

When he gets there, Skit pulls him in close with his wing, using it as a curtain of privacy. He whispers in an aside into his ear, “Don’t flip a dick, it’s a past memory, not recent.”

“I—”

Skit leans in closer, smirking in a way that makes Lance instantly want to throw one of his fists into his face. “You’re not subtle. Every melder here knows about your more recent troubles—well, mostly, I was just barely able to block it from Sparti. You’re like broadcasting it for the whole damn planet. You ever think you might try to keep it more age-appropriate around here?”

None of this is making Lance feel any better, any less exposed. He crosses his arms over his chest, frowning and wishing Kevin had never referred them elsewhere. It’s not right for these guys to just go traipsing around in their minds whenever they feel like it, without even asking. While he’s relieved he’s at least showing the decency to not out him to Keith, it’s still a cruel use of their power, and Lance is just about to storm off when Skit’s laughter rings loud in his ears.

“Don’t you guys get that you can’t be having secrets?” he says, shaking his head and removing his wing curtain, “What kind of Voltron are they running over there these days? Paladins must be completely open and honest with one another to unlock their true power and potential.”

Those words stop Lance in his tracks. He can’t help feeling guilt, a prickling of something foreboding lifting the hairs at the back of his neck—especially when he makes direct eye contact with Keith.

Case in point, Keith looks away. Busies himself fiddling with his bayard again, hunching his shoulders up to his ears. Like a kid that’s just been called out for their bad behavior.

Lance can’t pretend he’s any better. He’s done nothing but shut out Keith for the past few days, instead of trying to talk to him, instead of trying to explain what’s been going on. In turn, Keith has been more closed off than ever—not just towards him, but gradually spreading to everyone else on the team.

Like an infection, like a butterfly effect of stupid choices leading to more stupid choices. As embarrassing as the reality of the situation is, he didn’t mean for things to get this bad because he popped one small boner over Keith.

Or well, maybe not _that_ small of a boner, Lance thinks. But still. That wasn’t really Keith’s fault—at least, not on purpose. These secrets, this lack of communication, clearly haven’t been doing either of them any favors.

Lance turns back to him, taking a deep breath in.

He's ready.

He's ready to do something different.

Glancing between them, Skit clears his throat, gesturing to both of their moping as if to say ‘ _see what I mean?_ ’.

Somewhat more gently, he continues his explanation. “Mind melds with the lions can just as easily be disrupted by uncooperation as it can be failure to let one another in. No need to take it personally, or get all gloom and doom about it. Yeesh, you guys are a depressing bunch.” He shrugs, letting his wings drape over the back of the chair. “Just, telling you what I know. With some general cooperation, this can be fixed.”

Lance thinks it’s all about to end there, when Skit calls over to Keith, “Hey you, moody fella.”

Keith raises his head back up, considering them silently, allowing Skit to continue spouting the next words that makes Lance’s heart skip a few heated beats.

“If anything has been, or starts to go wrong with forming Voltron, this is your guy to blame,” Skit says, one hand around his mouth to funnel the sound, the other pointing right at Lance’s chest.

A frown, engraved with something uncertain—perhaps even something fiery beneath it—forms across Keith’s face. He looks back and forth between them in confusion. For one gut-lurching second, they make eye contact. Lance can’t bring it in himself to hold it, letting his eyes drop to the floor, biting his lip as he prays for all of this humiliation to just be over soon.

Clearing his throat, Keith props his feet up onto a table, glaring at Skit.

“No offense, but…” he drawls, hand trailing towards his bayard in warning, “Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh? I like to make fun of Lance just as much as the next guy, but I don’t think that’s necessary to say. We work as a team. Lance wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that, so excuse me for my bluntness, but you can just fuck off with that shit.”

Lance stands stock still, feeling like his arms are useless weights at his side. He wasn’t expecting for Keith to defend him like that.

Silence fills the room.

Then Skit starts clapping.

“Well played.” Grinning, Skit rolls his shoulders forward, cracks his neck before popping up. He flourishes a deep bow, starting from his chest, his wings spreading out to the side as if curtsying. “Alright, you guys passed the test. I’m just playing, _both_ of you are gonna end up fucking up Voltron if you don’t man the fuck up.”

“Wait, what?” Lance raises his voice, hearing Keith’s echo the same question.

“I like to poke around with some things I know will cause a reaction, to see where my clients are at first, in terms of their relationship with one another. Lets me know how much work still needs to be done. I carried out a test for each of you.”

“So, uh, how did we do?” Keith asks.

“Eh.” Skit does a so-so motion with his hand. Lance doesn’t miss the way he stares in his direction, for the briefest moment. “Good enough, I guess. That’s why I’m here though! Come on, we’re going to get some memory chips.”

As they’re stepping out, Lance feels a hand clap heavily onto his shoulder.

It’s not Keith.

“That part we talked about, still stands.” Skit tilts his head to him. “Past memory sharing—and _don’t_ give me that look again kid, you know _exactly_ which one I’m talking about. Think it over before you write it off completely. Who knows. It might help gain you some points, loverboy.”

Before Lance can feel the bile rise fully in his throat, Skit is already shoving him from the common room.

 

* * *

 

The place they end up isn’t much different from the immersion room.

Except there’s electroshock type machines in the corner that Keith doesn’t particularly like the aura of.

They remind him of Kevin’s initial display to them about searching each other’s memories, the tiny memory people clutching each other’s hands as they sat all wired up together.

While he wouldn’t mind doing that, holding Lance’s hand, he’s still not sure where they stand anymore in that aspect. Since Lance seems to be avoiding touching him, outside of the brief hand-holding they did before they came down together, it could be a technically difficult feat to do at this point.

For sure, Lance is looking nervously at the chairs as well. Biting at the inside of his cheek, like he’s having the same thoughts.

“Personally, disconnection is something Kevin’s not so keen on,” Skit explains to them, the beginning of some long-winded background about what’s going on. “When I invented it during my own apprenticeship, he was reluctant to even have me do trials, but over time we’ve made it a necessary part of the practice. He still thinks it’s sort of a scapegoat usage of our powers because we don’t actually have to be present in order for you to explore each other’s memories. But that’s why I think it can be more useful.”

Keith appreciates the time he’s taking to go into more detail than Kevin, but Lance looks decidedly bored by it as he taps his foot on the floor. Impatient, like he can’t take two seconds of his time listening before they just plunge their brains into something they have no clue about the possible dangers of.

“More _private_.” Skit smiles, then taps his head with his wing, making himself wince. “And also, better for bad hangovers, because we’ve already channeled our energy into these useful little chips beforehand.”

With a flourish of his wings, he gestures for Sparti to hand them each the small chips in question. Keith stares at the thing, which is barely bigger than his palm. It’s a rectangular, transparent card, with a thin, metal end that looks like a thermometer.

“All you have to do, is hold this long end up to your temple, and focus on what memory you would like to share. Then, that card can be fixed into a headset.”

In front of them, a mixture of both angry and bored, Sparti is demonstrating as Skit speaks. Taking his own card, putting it to his head while rolling his eyes, and then jamming it so hard into a headset that Keith’s afraid it might break.

“These chairs here help with added sensation and intensity, but as homework assignments, these little chips are exceedingly handy.”

Sparti slaps one of the chairs. Keith holds back a laugh as he takes a handful of chips and tosses them as hard as he can across the room.

“You can fill them up with whatever you want here, and gradually share them between each other in your downtime because—great demonstrating, Sparti, really, loving your energy right now—you’ve already got the devices back on your ship. Which is cool, because I don’t think you guys can always be visiting us all that often, right?”

They both shake their heads. “Think we’re already on our limit as it is,” Lance says aloud, “The rest of our team doesn’t exactly know why we’re here, uh, yet. They think we’re just running sample missions and stuff.”

Skit smacks his wing against his head, holding it there as if he’s exasperated. “Why am I not surprised? Secrets, secrets, secrets. Seriously, I’m considering giving a group discount for all of you at some point.”

“So,” Keith draws out, thinking this is as best a time as any that he’s going to get a decent explanation of things. “What’s the difference here? Between disconnection and immersion. Because it sounds basically the same, right? Like we’re both sharing our memories, in the end.”

“Invasive submersion, or immersion as we shorten it, can give you wonderful visuals and sensations, plus control of your surroundings for increased creativity. But memory disconnection takes out all the best parts of emotion, putting people quite literally in your shoes. Which is why, for you, blue dude—”

“Lance,” Lance corrects him flatly.

“Oh, I know. Don’t interrupt.” Skit clicks his tongue, and Lance heaves a sigh. “For you, showing Keith your memories through immersion, will help and be much easier for _him_. Healing, and giving him a bigger picture from which to make logical conclusions without too much emotion clouding his judgment. But for red dude, taking out his memories with disconnection and showing you that way, will be more helpful for _you_ to become understanding and empathetic about what he’s been through. And easier, because he doesn’t have to experience them again himself.”

“So it’s about what’s easier for the other person,” Keith says, quietly.

He can appreciate the thought that’s gone into this, though it reminds him that the melders have been doing a fair amount poking around in his mind to be able to sense what he’s been through. It makes him feel a little uncomfortable, while at the same time, helps to know that at least he doesn’t have to talk about it.

That’s something that’s never, ever been easy for him. So showing Lance his memories in a way he doesn’t have to talk about it if he doesn’t want to, is a relief that eases him into feeling much less tense about all this.

“You got it, kid. Easier for the other person, and what helps them feel more comfortable.”

Looking exhausted, Sparti drags himself over the Skit, who pulls him in with one wing. Squeezing him, in some weird form of a hug.

Skit winks to them. “Though, either way, you still will be switching methods. Generally, Lance likes to re-watch his memories, as they come from a place of fondness. I get the sense he _really_ enjoys attractive imagery.”

When he says that, Skit flicks his line of sight towards Lance, whose cheeks flush before he aims his gaze to the floor. Shrugging his shoulders, like he doesn’t want to admit that Skit is right, but he’s been too called out to deny it.

The ends of Keith’s lips turn up. Attractive imagery—well, there’s no denying Lance always has the hots for something or other out there.  

Skit turns back to him. “You aren’t like that as much, huh? You’re touch and go on the memories, but you enjoy atmosphere and physical sensations.”

Now it’s Keith’s turn to feel called out. He’s aware of Lance’s eyes, slowly but surely, flickering up over to him. He clears his throat, seeing no sense of shame in simply replying with, “Sure. I do like to get physical, yeah.”

Cracking his knuckles, he turns his hand into a fist, making a motion against his open palm as if he’s punching someone out. For some reason, Lance makes a choking noise at his words. Like he’s just stupidly taken in too much air.

Coming out of whatever that was fairly quickly, Lance says, “Alright, so this disconnection business is a one man show.”

“Not always. Two people can go in for disconnection, and it can be a deeply supportive and highly emotional experience. Difficult though, depending on the memory’s contents. You just have to be aware of what you’re getting into.”

“Man,” Lance whistles, running his finger along a wire curiously until Sparti bats his hand away, telling him shortly not to touch the machinery. “Memory sharing is dope. Kinda scary, but dope.”

Keith feels something nudge at his elbow.

“Here are your designated memory devices,” Sparti sighs up to him, holding what looks like the things they use for the mind meld exercise, if a little more ornate and complicated. “Please go sit on your chairs so I can leave soon.”

Lance perks up. His eyes widen, glinting with what Keith recognizes as his ‘ _I’m about to say something blindingly stupid’_ look _._

“Oh, so they’re kinda like—”

“Don’t say it,” Keith warns.

Keith’s a fool if he thinks he’s not going to waggle his eyebrows, clap him on the back, and say,

“— _Mnemonic devices_.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two for one special! I know these took me a little while longer to write, and I couldn’t think of a way to break them up that wouldn’t be awkward. Tbh I’m still not all that proud of them, but I’m really tired of going back over everything and need them to get the fuck outta my drafts, so it is what it is. You guys have waited long enough to take a peek at Keith’s inner mind so trust me, there’s a whole lot more of that in the next chapter which I hope makes up for it.
> 
> Before you turn the page, some general notes of interest:
> 
> [1] Yes, Skit is nonbinary, and prefers primarily ‘he’ pronouns (though in Munninian language, pronouns don't exactly hold much meaning, and aren't used that often). In regards to his appearance, this is why he has features of both and neither genders, simultaneously. Here on Munnin, ‘inbetweeners’ as they’re referred to, are widely accepted as the norm and rarely discriminated against.
> 
> [2] Munnin ages and maturation rates. Because they have such incredibly long lifespans, early life extends to about 200 years, developmentally and psychologically. This would put someone like Sparti, who’s a bit over 500 years old, at a similar mindset to that of a 6 or 7 year old Earth child. Skit, on the other hand, is a few thousand years old and has been a full fledged melder for a decent amount of time, making him probably around the same age as Shiro.
> 
> And Kevin’s just ancient af.


	13. Midas' Suite Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance has never closed his mouth faster. The blood in his veins feel like they have ice blocks shifting around in them. 
> 
> Keith was an orphan. Keith doesn’t have a family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some extra warnings needed for this chapter, just to be on the safe side. Tw’s for homophobia and violence, semi graphic descriptions of children fighting. If any of my readers find that too triggering, please let me know in the comments, as I do not mind providing a brief summary of the events that happened without going into detail :)

Keith volunteers to go this time around.

He figures it’s the least he can do, and might help even the playing field in the emotional department for the two, as Lance did share something pretty intimate with him originally. As much as Keith would like to deny it, it was brave of him to go first, in his own kind of idiotically naive way.

Plus, with this new concept of disconnection, and the fact that he only has to share something happy, it pretty much erases any other reluctance he’s been having about it all.

He thought Lance might try to fight him about it, might want to rush at the chance to show him some stupid memory material just to be annoying, but he only seems to be getting more and more excited by the notion of Keith sharing his now.

Which is, to Keith, pretty baffling. Cute, but baffling.

Lance is beaming as he asks, “So, we can go in together if we want?”

Skit shrugs his wings. “Yeah, if you want. Some dudes are into that.” He places a hand to his chin, as if thinking something over. “Might get kinda weird, though. Fair warning. But for a happy memory, I don’t see the harm in it.”

“Keith, come with me,” Lance pleads with big, puppy dog eyes, setting his hands upon Keith’s shoulders. “Come on, please?”

Keith stiffens, searching Lance’s face for when he’s going to let the joke at his expense fall. But he can’t find it in the lines that he sees there, in the cute dimples that form in his cheeks, within the curling of his happy lips. He’s genuinely excited for this, as much as Keith doesn’t really understand why.

“...Alright,” he relents, much easier than he’s probably ever folded for someone in his life. “Only if you promise not to judge me or be annoying about it.”

“Promise, promise. A thousand times promise.” Clapping his hands together in front of him, like all of his prayers have somehow been answered, Lance is positively radiant with giddiness. “But if I do, I’ll make it up to you by doing your chores for a week.”

“Doesn’t saying you might still do it defeat the purpose of a promise?” Keith sighs, but he ushers him forward.

He fiddles with the ancient mind meld device, looking for the port on it where he can insert the chip. The thing is genuinely confusing, and makes an odd, squawking sound when he sticks his finger into one pulsing light on the side, almost causing him to drop it. Sparti moves forward to help, turning it over, because apparently he was holding it upside-down. Sheepishly, he slips the chip into the slot Sparti points out.

“Tch, who died and made you the promise police?” Crossing his arms, Lance gets close into his space. Keith flinches a little. “It’s sincere, really. You just...you know how I can be.”

“True,” Keith agrees, “So if you do, I want more than just my chores covered.”

A smirk replaces Lance’s glare, one of his brows finely arching as he props a hand on his hip. He’s leaning in towards him again, lowering his voice to a whisper, as if he doesn’t want anyone else to overhear them. “Oh?” he says with a small laugh, “What else you have in mind?”

“Your next mission with Shiro,” Keith doesn’t hesitate to answer, smiling when Lance’s face visibly falls. “What were _you_ thinking?”

Probably something about wanting a video of Keith saying how cool he was, or a parade with him being boosted on a chair above crowds of people cheering his name, with pretty girls flocking around him, Keith thinks.

“N-nothing.” Finally, Lance pulls back from him, and Keith relishes in the ruddy tinge that fills his cheeks. He’s clearing his throat, settling himself down into one of those creepy chairs before Keith can try and tease him more. “Uh, exactly something like that, yeah. Totally. Shiro mission. You got it.”

Keith tugs the device on, and there’s a moment where he can sense Lance hesitate. He’s staring at the device, folding it over in his hands, before snapping out of it and shoving it onto his head.

Skit hooks them up. Keith tries not to pay attention to all the differently colored wires and gadgets humming with what sounds more like the warning bells of impending doom. On the armrests, his hands are admittedly shakier than usual. They were informed that they didn’t technically have to hold hands to jump start it, so he’s surprised when Lance reaches for his anyway.

He smiles at him, gently, while squeezing his hand. Keith doesn’t pull away.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Keith leans back in the seat.

Then everything goes black.

 

* * *

  
Lance doesn’t understand much about the differences in how this will be from full immersion, but he gathers that whatever this is doesn’t include the nice little Keith growing up timeline that Keith claimed to have seen about him.

Which really doesn’t seem fair. He was looking forward to seeing a tiny Keith before he completely grew into his terrible mullet, and then subsequently watching it gradually evolve to be worse.

As such, he and Keith drop at the same time, into the cold, hard ground of some vacant lot in front of a dreary, looming old building. The outside of it is dark with chipping paint, architecturally akin to a castle that’s fallen into ruin, bearing twisting vines and a crooked, broken iron gate fencing it in.

There’s barely any grass or landscaping in the yard, just ghostly shells of displaced shrubbery and overgrown weeds. The weather is freezing and overcast, maybe sometime in winter, as bits of frost are wedged in glittering geometric shapes within the cracked mud of the earth.

Ominous, is what it reminds Lance of. Something foreboding, and distinctly not fun.

By all accounts, this looks nothing like the start to a happy memory.

“Charming place,” Lance says, frowning, rubbing the sting of landing from his ass.

The wind is powerful, and whipping painfully at his face, like tiny cut fingernails caught in a funnel of air. They’re back in their usual street clothes, and Lance pulls his jacket tight around him.

Keith’s expression is inscrutable, back to that blank gaze he often has when he’s observing the team from afar. Shrugging, he draws his fingers over the bark of a barren tree nearby, tracing some clear, carved grooves reading ‘KK’.

He glances up into the sky through his lashes, blinking back tears from the wind. “It had its nice qualities.”

Disbelieving, Lance props his hands on his hips, observing his surroundings skeptically. “Really?”

“No,” Keith deadpans, “Total shithole.”

“Ah. Well.”

Lance is just about to ask what’s so special about this place then, when Keith shushes him as a crowd of children rush out of the building and into what must have been the yard, at some point.

That’s when Lance first notices it. How their perspective is strange and angled, as if he’s seeing this happen from a place up higher than from the ground they’re standing on.

“Just watch,” Keith mutters, disgruntled, “You don’t need to talk for this, that’s the whole point of memory viewing.”

“Yeah, but can you at least tell me where this is? Or like, _what_ this is?” Lance pries, wanting to know more about the background to this memory. To know more, so much more, about Keith in general. “Was this your...home growing up? What in the world am I looking at here?”

“Hmm, that’s fair.” Keith is nodding, watching as a group of young, scruffy boys barrel past them, their faces turned to the grey clouds as if searching for something within them. “In a way, it was. It’s the orphanage I lived at before I started going into foster care. Now, shut up and watch.”

Lance has never closed his mouth faster. The blood in his veins feel like they have ice blocks shifting around in them.

Keith was an orphan. Keith doesn’t have a family.

His brain can barely process his floundering over this reveal, this reveal which puts more pieces of the weird Keith puzzle into places in a way that makes a whole lot more sense. A whole lot more sense that unearths a whole lot more emotions than he’s prepared to face.

It might have helped, had Keith shared more about his background earlier, because one of the boys looking up cries a shrill, “Found him!” which startles Lance right out of where his mind’s been racing.

He’s drawn back to the present—or well, technically the present moment of viewing the past—distracted as many heads begin to turn in their direction. The kid is cupping dirty hands around his mouth, pointing at the tree Keith had just been running his fingers across.

“He’s up here, everyone!”

It almost looks like the kid is pointing to them, but Lance realizes belatedly that that wouldn’t make sense at all. Lance’s gaze follows to where they’re pointing, to the almost completely stripped branches high, high up in the tree.

There, he sees it. A small, pale boy with unkempt, dark hair, tucked on a branch, swinging his short legs over their heads. As the children begin to swarm over to the base of the tree, Lance raises his hand to shield his eyes from the overcast light.

Keith has drawn back, stepping out of the way, perturbed by the fact some of the kids are running right through him. His neck is stretched up as well, watching silently, a small smile perking up the edges of his lips.

There’s a calm, floating warmth of emotion that’s been flowing over Lance, which ends abruptly as the boy looks down below him.

“That you?” Lance hears himself saying incredulously, feeling like he’s having an out-of-body experience.

That’s a long, long way up, and it looks much too dangerous for someone that young to have just been casually hanging out on. Keith nods, his grin widening when the tiny version of himself flips off the crowd.

Turning to face him, Lance throws his hands in the air, wanting an explanation at some level. “Seriously? How the hell’d you get up there?”

“Shhh,” Keith denies him, grabbing him by the chin and tipping it back up to force him to continue watching the smaller version of him. “I spent a lot of time in trees as a kid, okay? Now _pay attention_.”

The kid who originally found him—a similarly short, stickly boy with sandy hair and skin—bares his teeth almost ferally, yelling up to Keith, “Found you, asshole.”

Small Keith mockingly claps his hands together. “Congratulations, moron. You want a fucking medal?”

Color Lance genuinely confused, yet intrigued. If this is some version of weird American hide-n-seek he doesn’t know about, he’s curious as to why the air seems to be filled with an animosity, with this strange, unknown range of emotions that he surely never felt as a child.

There’s an anxiety he can feel, almost tactilely in the air around him, that’s distinctly not his. Something that trembles his frame, makes him shiver. Slowly, Lance identifies it as fear. An unbased fear of these kids he doesn’t know, and has never even met.

The wind seems to grow twice as strong. The tree is beginning to sway back and forth, dangerously. Skit’s words come back to Lance as he folds his arms around himself, trying to rub the feeling back into them.

_‘Memory disconnection takes out all the best parts of emotion, putting people quite literally in your shoes.’_

This isn’t _his_ fear he’s feeling, he realizes, glancing at Keith whose similarly looking more uncomfortable, soothing himself in his own way by clasping his hand tightly over the hilt of his knife. Rubbing his thumb and forefinger together over it, with his shoulders tensed.

This smaller Keith, is afraid of these kids. They aren’t his friends playing a cute game, they’re his _tormentors_. Though his angry scowl doesn’t show it, nor do his endless barragement of insults towards them, the memory is giving his inner feelings away.

“Hey,” Lance whispers, dropping his arms and gently covering Keith’s hand with his own. “It’s okay, those feelings are old, and this isn’t real anymore. Happy memory, right? It’s gonna get good soon, I bet.”

“...Yeah,” Keith breathes in the wake of a shaky inhale, licking his lips, avoiding his gaze. His eyes are set on his own prepubescent figure, perched in the branches, egging the other boys on. Smiling weakly as he must be thinking back to it, he agrees, “I...yeah. It is.”

Lance pulls their hands in unison away from his knife. He slips Keith’s fingers soundly between his own again, and this time, Keith is the one squeezing reassurance.

“—if you’re so tough, short stuff, then why don’t you come down here and prove it?”

Another boy is shouting to Keith, this one bigger and taller than the rest. He parts the crowd with a swagger to his step, wiping a grubby sleeve against his dripping nose, his greasy straw hair slicked back on his scalp.

The overalls he’s wearing have one buckle loose, with the blotch of something red staining the front pocket. From the way he towers over them, from the way his face is more angular than the others and his chest much broader, Lance can tell he’s probably at least a young teen.

The rest of the kids fall silent. Only one of them is standing back from the crowd—a twitchy sort of boy with cropped dirty blonde hair and glasses, whose neither cheering nor laughing, just darting nervously back and forth between the teenager and Keith. Biting his lip, with glassy, tear-brimmed eyes.

Small Keith pauses, his fingers curling white knuckled around a branch above him, before he grumbles less confidently, “Why...why don’t _you_ come _up here,_  you bumbling oaf?”

“Cop out,” the teenager tells him, and some other boys begin snickering with him. “We’ve been over this before, Shitgane. Either I beat your ass here and now, or beat it worse later. Your choice. You always gotta come down sometime.”

Lance squeezes back against Keith’s hand, feeling that tremble of fear again, ripping simultaneously through his heart and chest. He doesn’t see Keith’s current expression, because he’s too busy casting his gaze up, angrily watching as small Keith pushes himself up to his full size.

Which isn’t much, but he holds it proudly, setting his thin shoulders back as he stares them all down. His sneakers are falling apart, the soles too worn with open lips, causing his heels to precariously slip over the peeling bark.

The fire rises back in those tiny, sad irises. “Fine,” he hisses, beginning his descent back down, which physically pains Lance to watch, even though he guesses this memory doesn’t end quite in that kind of horror. “Your funeral.”

“You guys hear that?” More laughter as the teen continues being a dick. “ _My_ funeral, really? Even though you’re the one always eating the shit out of the mud when I’m pounding your ass and face into it?”

Small Keith laughs, setting one foot over a lower branch, pausing at it to shake his head. “You should be more careful of the words you choose. That sounds really...not good.”

The teenager must be a little on the slow side, because he seems perplexed, until one of the kids leans over and whispers something into his ear that has his cheeks flushing red. “Yeah, well you would know, faggot, wouldn’t you?”

“Yuck, that’s gross. I’m nine. So no.” The grin small Keith flashes is positively dripping with smugness, a familiar smugness Lance knows all too well. “Not yet.”

The crowd jeers at their banter, obviously rooting for whoever is going to end up on top here. The only one who seems invested about taking sides, is the younger kid that originally spotted Keith, and that’s probably more out of duty to not be the next object of this older guy’s violence.

“Shit, man, what did you even do?” Lance jokes, trying to lighten the mood, watching with thinly veiled terror as Keith finally reaches the last branch. He does a twirling loop over the branch above him to gain enough momentum to launch himself fully down, which a few kids reluctantly whisper was objectively cool.

However, it only shows just how much of a height gap he has with the bigger kid, how much thinner and more gaunt than almost everyone else he is. Lance can make out every line of his ribs through his thin t-shirt. There’s a ring of black around one of his eyes, a cut upon a swollen bottom lip.

Nine years old.

Lance thought he was maybe six, at most.

“Usually I didn’t do anything,” Keith replies softly, letting go of his hand, as if he’s suddenly realized it’s weird or something for him to be holding it for this long. “But this time, he caught me kissing his little brother behind the bushes.”

“Oh my god,” Lance coughs out, something caught between choking and laughing at the same time.

He can only say it again when small Keith taunts, “I thought I’d wait a few years ‘cause I was hoping your brother might be there for that, not your ugly ass.”

The crowd begins cheering uproariously loud, until Lance can barely hear over the din of it. Bigger guy’s nostrils flare wildly, and he kicks his foot into the dirt, much like a bull about ready to charge at his target. “You little shit, I’ll kill you!”

By this point Lance is heaving, rolling with laughter, trying hard to keep his eyes on the scene. The laughter soon begins to die in his throat, however, when he feels his heart rate spike to an unimaginable level.

Keith manages to dodge the guy, as he’s fairly quick and light on his feet, but Lance can physically feel how terrified he is. It’s rough. Keith next to him, is pale and shaking hard, and all Lance can do is try to comfort him through it. At one point, he even hears an apology being whispered, but he reassures Keith that it’s okay.

He prays for this memory to take a happy turn soon, for both of their sake.

The two spend a good amount of time running and dodging, running and dodging. Completely on the defensive, Keith is missing his attacks by mere inches of space, and Lance can feel the sweat that’s beading on his forehead, can feel how his tiny muscles strain to keep moving.

All like they’re sensations happening to his own body.

“Fight me,” the teenager goads. “Quit running away, coward.”

Keith is beginning to trip up on his feet, and it probably won’t be long before he runs out of energy to keep evading his attacks. Lance silently roots for him, his breath heaving out of him to match the exertion that’s slowly becoming his own. A shared pain, that he feels deeper than anything he’s ever felt before.

Lance is taken off guard when the twitchy blonde kid from earlier—who was separated from the crowd—suddenly intervenes between them, right as a punch is flying towards Keith’s bewildered face. Present Keith offers a small comment of explanation—that his identity is a kid named Chuck, the little brother he kissed.

“Jay, don’t!” Chuck pleads, tugging on his brother’s sleeve. “Please don’t, he didn’t mean it!”

“I totally meant it,” Keith echoes, at the same his smaller self does, whose ducking between Jay’s long legs to escape.

Distracted by his brother’s sudden interference, the teenager named Jay isn’t paying attention as Keith begins to tie his shoes together.

“Chuck, for fuck’s sake, stay out of this,” Jay yells to him, “He’s been filling your head with lies. You don’t like him. You can’t. Boys don’t like other boys that way.”

“I don’t...I don’t like him like that, I swear,” Chuck says, glancing away. “It was just a dare. It wasn’t his fault, so please don’t hurt him again. You already gave him a black eye yesterday!”

With a roll of his eyes, Jay shoves Chuck away. Three things happen in quick succession as Keith pops back up behind him.

One, Jay turns to try and find Keith, the short motion not enough yet to send him off balance from his now limited movement. Two, once he spots him, Keith can’t get out of the way fast enough for the punch that’s aimed at his face.

But three is Lance’s favorite part, even as he feels pain sear over his jaw. Because with three, Jay’s momentum of retaliation draws him forward, and when his balance begins to tip as his shoelaces pull taught together, Keith recovers and pushes him backward as hard as he can.

Like the flipping of a switch, Keith’s eyes take on a dangerous flare. A flare Lance has seen near thousands of times at this point. A flare indicating that Keith is about to snap, and he doesn’t have to feel Keith’s replicated rage from the memory that washes over him to get the gist of what might happen next.

“I’ll kiss Chuck as much as I want, I’ll kiss whoever I want, and you can’t fucking stop me!” Keith shouts, slamming his knuckles across Jay’s face as he jumps onto his chest, “You think you’re _so_ much better than us just ‘cause you’re bigger. Well, you ain’t. You’re just a big bully!”

“A big, sad, mean, _stupid_ bully,” Keith spits out every word, his cheeks growing redder and redder, packing a punch with each utterance, “And you can’t hurt me anymore, ‘cause I’m gettin’ bigger and smarter everyday now, and you’re just gettin’ dumber and dumber!”

There’s tears mixing with the blood smeared on his face. Chuck isn’t the only one moving forward, attempting to pull him off. A few girls have entered into the yard now, prying gently at his arms. Eventually, Keith seems to come back to himself when Chuck gets in front of him and tries to shield Jay’s face with his hands.

Keith shoves off him then, breathing hard, hands still curled into tight, bloody fists. He kicks Jay in the side one last time before drawing completely back. Some of the kids are helping Jay off the ground, who doesn’t say a word, doesn’t make a single move to try and continue fighting.

They stare at each other for a few tense, heated seconds. Keith looks a little deranged, still standing covered in a good amount of blood, with his arms held out to the side like a tiny hulk trying to calm himself down. Anxiety replaces the uncontrollable rage and adrenaline, shifting over Lance like cold water hitting him in the face. Smaller now, but clearly still there.

Wordlessly, after flipping him off, Jay just grabs Chuck’s arm and begins to drag him away.

Small Keith relaxes once he turns his back, his arms falling down after he wipes the tears and blood off his face with the back of his sleeve, sniffling. No one stays back to talk to him, to help him. They’re just sending him disturbed glances, trying not to make eye contact, and begin dispersing from the grounds to go play closer to the fence.

Like none of this mess ever happened. Like maybe this happens so often, they’ve all become completely desensitized to it.

Not a single guardian, or whoever the fuck is supposed to be watching them, makes an appearance. Blinking back tears from the emotional drag of it all, Lance watches as small Keith doesn’t let any of this lack of reaching out bring him further down.

Instead, he simply smiles. He smiles, and begins laughing. Self-pride swells, like a balloon, in Lance’s chest.

 _“Sorry,”_ Chuck is clearly mouthing to Keith over his shoulder, frowning as Jay jerks and pulls him along the dirt path leading up to the building. But he's pale in the face, honestly looking slightly relieved Jay is taking him away.

Keith doesn't appear phased by this, waving his swelling hand back to him happily, not in the least bit bothered that he's been essentially rejected.

“It was only a peck on the lips.”

The sound of present Keith’s lower voice startles him a little, Lance having gotten so caught up in the memory he almost forgot they were standing there together. He slings an arm around Keith’s shoulder, trying to be comforting as Keith’s brows furrow closer together, attempting to explain some of his background.

“We were kids, you know. We didn’t even know what we were doing. He told me he liked me, and I just felt like kissing him. He said I could, so I did it.”

“Aw…” Lance says, trying hard to catch his breath, trying hard to keep his head from spinning at the unfolding of events which he could never, ever could have predicted would happen. “He seemed sweet. I'm sorry things turned out that way.”

“Don't be,” Keith snorts a small laugh, raking his fingers through his windswept hair before folding his arms together. “He let me kiss him again. Just a while later, when his brother wasn't around to find out.” He shakes his head at the sight of himself laughing while wiping the blood off on his t-shirt. “And uh, once...once he was less afraid of me. After seeing me like that, he kept his distance for a good amount of time. Like everyone else.”

Lance smiles melancholically, shaking his head as well, feeling like that’s a pretty typical Keith response to something this heart-breaking.

“It was the first time I ever landed a hit like that, though,” Keith gives as further explanation, forcing a grin now, like his heart isn’t completely in it anymore. “The first time I ever fought back, and won.”

“That’s great, dude.” Lance doesn’t know what else to say. His chest feels like it’s caving in on itself. “Really, it was.”

Ignoring the little jumps of celebration going on in front of him, Keith slowly drops to his knees, then into a sitting position. Groaning, he pulls his legs into him, hunching over into more of a ball than Lance has ever seen him.

The last thing he looks at before he tucks his face away is Chuck, being dragged off with his head turned to the ground.

“It’s not actually that much of a happy memory, is it.” Keith doesn’t ask it like a question, and Lance doesn’t answer it like one. He’s sitting with his head in his hands, voice brittle like the dead leaves that are rattling in the trees. “It’s actually kind of...sad.”

“A little,” Lance admits, watching small Keith flexing out his fingers, grinning at his torn, bloodied knuckles. He can feel the residual pain of it as if it were his own, the unpleasant sting of bruised bone. “Maybe, a little more than a little.”

Clutching his knees harder into him, Keith runs his fingers through his hair, tugging frustratedly on the strands. “Lance. Just stop.”

Lowering himself next to Keith, Lance curls his fingers into the collar of Keith’s jacket. He can’t stand seeing Keith like this, balled pathetically on the ground like a wounded animal. There’s no way he’s going to let him mope or feel bad about sharing this with him. Not after seeing him like _that_.

“Okay, so a lot. Like I’m probably gonna cry about it later. Just be glad I’m not Hunk, because he’d be doing it already.” Lance claps a hand to his thigh, thinking that’s definitely beside the point he’s trying to make. “Whatever. But just look how damn _proud_ you are.”

Tugging backwards on his collar, Lance jerks Keith up, trying to get him to see what he’s seeing right now.

“Look at that shit-eating grin you’ve got on. Those snobby kid’s faces when you did it were fucking priceless, and you knew it.”

Keith doesn't look convinced. “I guess,” he says hollowly.

“That was big for you back then, wasn’t it?” Lance won't be deterred in getting Keith to see this from an outsider’s point of view. “Back then, that’s what made you happy. Taking a stand for yourself, so it was still a happy memory. But maybe...since then, better things have happened to you, so this doesn’t seem as good as it used to. I think that’s a good thing, man. Like a really good thing.”

“I just wanted to show you something from when I was older, but not too old, like you showed me.” Keith scratches one finger against the frozen ground. Still morose, but more contemplative, like maybe he never considered that before. “But I just...there’s not much to choose from, I guess.”

The tears hit Lance all at once, a belated reaction to too much overwhelming information. Keith, being an orphan. Keith, being nine years old and considering this one of the happiest days of his life. Keith, devastated by the fact this isn’t something someone should consider as fond as they should. So many years later, because no one was ever around to give him the proper perspective or show him childhood could be any better.

“Jesus, are you crying?” Lance registers a hand on his shoulder. A voice, teasing, but soft. “You just said you'd wait.”

“I know, shut up,” Lance wails, trying to keep more tears from escaping, to no avail. “It's just so sad and that was like, really intense. I could feel it all, it was awful. I’m so sorry.”

A hand tugs him up, and Lance follows the pull on unsteady feet. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Keith says, and the scene begins to swirl and shift, finally taking them away from that horrible place.

 

* * *

 

By the time they get out of the disconnection, only Sparti is there.

Lance is still trying to get a grasp on his emotions, and Sparti offers tissues, looking annoyed as he does it. Probably pissed about being continuously underappreciated by the fact he’s been demoted to ‘just the tissue guy’.

“Get a hold of yourself,” he barks unnecessarily, too soon for either of them not to feel irked by. “You guys are staying the night with us, and I am _not_ going to spend it by holding your hand.”

Lance sniffles, not even saying anything smart in return, so it’s obvious he’s still distressed. Keith stands up, separating himself from all the wires in the process.  While it was weird to feel all those emotions again, he’s no stranger to intense situations like that. He’s feeling somewhat nauseous, but otherwise okay, because that memory isn’t nearly as distressing as what’s tumbling around in the rest of his head.

By all accounts, it might as well still be filed under ‘happy enough’.

He grabs Sparti by the hand, dragging him away from Lance’s earshot, ignoring his grumbling about being manhandled.

“First of all, chill, he’s a sensitive guy and he’s never experienced shit like that before.”

Sparti crosses his arms, but his irises are blue and placated, his tail drooping in shame. Scuffing his foot against the floor, he mumbles a quick apology.

“Second, what are you talking about?” Keith folds his arms right back at him. “We can’t stay here, we have to get back to Voltron.”

Sparti cocks his head at him, obviously perplexed. “It’s grown dark, above the town. Outside. You can’t leave at this hour, it is forbidden.”

Keith stares blankly. Wonders just what the hell that’s supposed to mean.

“Seriously? Kevin or Skit didn’t tell you about that either? For fuck’s sake.” Sparti pinches the bridge of his beak. “Have you two really never wondered why you have to enter the way you do? We’re locked down here for a reason, duh.”

Sure, he’s wondered about that before, though not too seriously. He sort of just thought it was an over-elaborate alien design, meant to be aesthetically interesting. Not that it was made for a reason that held real purpose, though that does make a hell of a lot more sense.

“Anyway, even if you wanted to leave, you can’t.” Sparti shakes his head. “There’s a magical block that takes effect at a certain time, and we’re way past curfew. Any attempts to leave despite this warning will leave us no choice but to turn you over to officials, and trust me, you don’t want that. They suck ass.”

Sparti hesitates in his speech. Looks around carefully back and forth, as if he’s afraid of Skit or Kevin popping in out of nowhere. Slowly, he allows his irises to swirl into purple, a color that Keith has yet to see on him before now. He points them towards Lance, who’s struggling to get out of his chair, and waves an arm into the air.

“Ah,” Lance says, and his tears stop flowing. Before Keith can ask what kind of weird magic might have just occurred, Sparti is shuffling towards the door, continuing his speech right where he left off.

“Plus, Kevin’s returned, and he says you guys can use the extra time after you sleep to do some further work before ya gotta go. He says he feels bad for not being here earlier. So contact your people, or whatever. Arrangements will be made for you to stay in a suite. Now I gotta go. When Lance gets his shit together, go meet Skit back in the common room.”

Stunned and confused, Keith merely watches him turn on his heel to leave. But he pauses, right as his tail wraps around the door handle.

“You didn't see nothin’ either. Got it?”

“Uh, yeah,” Keith says, “Sure. Didn’t see anything.”

Placated by the confirmation of his secret being kept safe, Sparti leaves.

Keith supposes he can’t really argue with all that. The fact remains that he really wants to try and leave anyway, but he has a respect for whatever cultural rules might be at play here, and getting them put in some crazy planet’s jail isn’t going to solve anything.

It might be because of the drain he already feels emotionally, but he has no fight left in him, and all he can do is contact Shiro through his com. He explains the situation to him, appreciating that Shiro takes it at the same face value and says for them to not worry about it, and that he’ll relay the message to the rest of the team. Coran is probably going to be in trouble later, as this was poor planning all around on his part, but oh well, Keith thinks. He’s not going to worry about that now.

He turns his attention back to Lance, who’s violently blowing his nose. His eyes are a little red around the edges, but he’s picking himself up, slowly disconnecting the wires. Keith comes over to help him pop the rest off.

“You good?” Keith asks.

Lance nods. “Yeah, yeah. I’m alright now. Feeling a lot better.”

Keith takes a step towards him, his arms automatically opening without thinking better of it. Before he can take back the hug he’s unconsciously offering, Lance is already jumping into his arms and squeezing the ever-loving shit out of him.

It takes Keith only a few seconds before he’s prying him off, because the gesture makes him flush up to the ears, and that is way more than enough of that.

“Cool, cause we got more bullshit to deal with. Let’s go, I’ll explain on the way.”

As they walk out the door, Lance slings an arm over his shoulder, hanging onto him as they go.

“Hey. That part where you started punching the shit out of that asshole. Do you think there’s a way I could replay that in slow-mo later?”

 

* * *

 

A single suite, is the part of information everyone conveniently leaves out.

The part of information that Keith and Lance don’t discover until Skit is walking them to their quarters, only to shove both of them into a room with one lone, giant bed in the center of it.

There appears to be a change of clothing for each of them upon it, some faded tunics that are similar to the garb Keith has noticed the common folk wearing. They’ve already discarded their armor, but Keith is relieved he won’t have to sleep in a skintight suit that wouldn’t do very well in hiding any surprise boners he might get over the night.

The place is welcoming and neat, but not very clean, with a thick layer of dust covering nearly everything and a musty smell that’s strong and sharp under Keith’s nose. A few torches are fit into slots on the walls, flickering gentle flames that are stretching long shadows across the wooden panels.

The ceiling is definitely the strangest part. Swirling above them, is a cosmic landscape, a sky of stars as if they’re out camping beneath an endless cosmos. The stars and moon look startlingly real, beaming lights that shift and sway directly onto the thick duvet draped over the bed.

“Welcome to the Midas suite, my dudes!” Skit sweeps them further in with his wings. “Just don’t get too greedy in here now. Not everything’s going to automatically turn into gold when you handle it.”

He’s snickering as he’s closing the door, ignoring Lance as he turns incredibly pale and starts shouting at him to wait.

The door slams in their faces. Keith frowns.

“That was kinda weird, wasn’t it?” he says, more than hung up on why he’s hearing about Greek mythology in a place this far from home. “I mean, did he mean Midas, as in King Midas? You know, like from that fable, where that guy is really stupid and wants everything he touches to turn to gold?”

Lance isn’t listening to him. He’s too busy turning into a ranting, raving mad man.

“Aw, come on, there’s no way they don’t have more room!”

He’s flinging himself at the door, pounding heavily on it. It won’t budge, and that seems to just infuriate him more.

“Uh—” Keith says. Standing there awkwardly, watching it all go down.

When Lance realizes it’s not going to open again—which takes way more time than Keith really has the patience for—he begins pacing around the room instead. Muttering things under his breath about how much he hates this planet, hates something called ‘birdtilians’, hates Coran, etc, etc.

“Well, I don’t know about you, uh,” Keith taps his fingers along one of his folded arms, “but I’m pretty tired. So if you’re gonna keep being crazy, could you at least keep it down?”

That gets Lance to shut up. He rushes in front of the bed, holding his arms out, as if that’s enough to stop Keith from getting onto it were he to try and do so.

“Oh no you don’t, nope nope. I’m totally taking the bed, your ass can sleep on the floor.”

Keith glances down at his feet, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the film of dirt beneath him. Lance really is crazy if he thinks he’s going to give up having the right to stay in a perfectly nice, giant luxurious bed over wood that hasn’t been cleaned in probably centuries.

“I am _not_ sleeping on this floor.”

Crossing his arms, Lance resolutely sits himself on the edge of the bed, glaring like any of this makes sense to get angry about. “Well, neither am _I_.”

“No one’s asking you to! Why the fuck are we even disputing this?! There’s a giant bed right there!”

Having had enough, Keith steps over to him, figuring if Lance won’t shut up he’s going to try and do it by other means. But that produces a weirder effect, because Lance makes some high pitched noise that sure sounds like a mouse squeaking, and pushes back so that he’s on the center of the bed. Grabbing the tucked corner of the duvet, he tears it open so he can dive under the sheets.

“Lance, come on. You’re being ridiculous.”

Keith tries to keep the anger in his tone, but he feels it slowly creeping into insecurity, into that hollow feeling that’s taken over him when he realizes that maybe, just maybe, Lance really does hate him now. Hates him so much, he can’t even entertain the thought of sleeping next to such a horrible person. And especially after he shared that memory, Keith wouldn’t exactly blame him for hating him even more.

There isn’t anything good about what’s lying in his mind. That pain, the hardships, were always meant for him to deal with alone. He should have kept it to himself.

“Why don’t you just tell me already what’s going on?” Keith bites out, waving his hands animatedly over Lance from the edge of the bed, who only recoils further into his new blanket fort. “Why do you suddenly hate the idea of sharing a bed with me? Look, I know I’m not the easiest guy to get along with sometimes, but seriously, what did I do wrong? Can’t we at least talk about it?”

For whatever reason, _that_ gets a reaction. Finally, Lance’s shoulders shrug down from their obstinate sense of superiority. Keith can hear him audibly inhale, but when he speaks, it comes out too quickly for him to make any sense of it.

“Youshoutchedmydicinyourslep.”

Keith gives him a withering look. “Were those...words?”

After a deep sigh, Lance scrunches his eyes closed, and admits more slowly, “I said, you touched my dick. In your sleep.”

“I…” Keith blinks. It takes him a second to wonder if he heard that right. “I what now?”

Opening his eyes slowly, Lance glances to the side, his cheeks darkly flushing. Keith watches how he twists the blanket between his fingers, how he refuses to look him in the eyes.

“You touched my _dick_ ,” he repeats, this time more accusingly, “Put your hand right on it. It was, you know, _rude_! Yeah, rude and like, really... _inappropriate_.”

“Oh.” Keith wasn’t expecting this to be the reason behind Lance's odd behavior. Still, he feels himself automatically shrugging, because that’s a stupid reason to be cold to someone for several days. “Is that it?”

Slowly, Lance nods, shrinking back within his blanket cocoon. He looks a little confused by his unbothered response. Whatever, it’s not like he’s going to get weird about it. As if he would ever mean to touch Lance’s dick by choice.

Except—

Except, that’s a lie, because he totally _would_ if he was offered the option. Feeling his neck grow hotter, Keith can’t deny the fact that this is all the fault of a sexy, wet dream he had over Lance in the first place.

When he thinks about it like that, it _does_ start getting weird. Really, really uncomfortably weird. Lance woke up to him touching his dick. He, Keith Kogane, touched Lance McClain’s _dick_ in a bold move of Freudian subconscious desires.

When put like that, oh yeah, he can definitely see how that could be embarrassing and awkward to wake up to.

To keep from having to go anywhere further down that dark road, Keith decides to focus on reassuring Lance. In the back of his mind, he has the brief insecurity that maybe, it’s really more for himself.

“So what? We’re always cuddling, it was bound to happen eventually,” Keith says, plopping onto the edge of the bed. Lance visibly jumps, pulls the blanket tighter around him. “Your bed’s not exactly big. Sorry, though, I guess.”

“You-you should be sorry!” His voice is high pitched and shaking, along with his head. “You should be, you should be.”

With his hands clutching at his sheets, Lance still refuses to move. Running his tongue along his lip, he just stares at Keith all wide-eyed, like he’s scared or something.

He’s making a much bigger deal out of this than Keith thinks is necessary. Just the other night, he woke up to Lance flicking at his nipple under his shirt, saying some sleepy bullshit about milking Kaltenecker, and it’s not like he made a big stink out of _that_.

Maybe he should have, he thinks, rolling his eyes. Maybe then at least Lance retaliating so defensively would make sense now.

“Okay, what’s your deal? Big whoop, I accidentally brushed your stupid dick while I was sleeping.” It’s not as bad as it sounds. Lance is the one being childish. “What are you gonna do? Not let me sleep with you anymore?”

Lance seems to be considering it, his eyes flitting over him, narrowed with distaste still. It’s not a thought Keith even wants to entertain. He just started getting used to this, just started accepting it. These few days apart alone have been killing him. It’s not like he can do anything if Lance refuses to let him back in, but the thought does make him feel more upset than he cares to admit.

For an agonizing spread of time, Lance makes a show of stammering nonsensically, opening and closing his mouth like a confused fish contemplating whether it needs air or water to breathe. Keith is expecting rejection, plain and simple, by that point. He prepares for his heart to drop into his stomach, prepares for the inevitable heartache he knows will come from yet another person not wanting him around again.

But all Lance settles on telling him—even more stupidly—is, “My dick’s not stupid.”

“Lance,” Keith lets himself fall backwards onto the bed, head landing by Lance’s feet. “C’mon, I’m too tired for this. Just move over already. I promise I won’t touch your not-stupid dick.”

The sheets feel better than ever on his back, there’s happiness snaking its way up his spine. When he looks up, he’s relieved to see Lance not attempting to say anything else. He flashes a smile towards Lance, one that stretches his mouth in a way he isn't used to feeling, but its effect is immediate. There’s one more sigh before Lance drops the covers from around his head. His shoulders slump, defeated.

Moving over and flinging back the blanket, Lance scrunches himself dramatically to the very edge, giving Keith about three quarters of the space. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to keep your dumb, sweaty hands to yourself?” He grumbles, “You’re always...”

Always what, Keith won’t ever find out, because Lance must finally realize he hasn’t got a leg to stand on. He flips over, away from him with one last huff, perched uncomfortably off the bed like an idiot. Keith tells himself he doesn’t care if he’s comfortable or not, doesn’t care that Lance isn’t apologizing for being a dick by stringing his fingers through his hair.

“Yeah, you’re teaching me, right now.” Keith doesn’t bother to mask his annoyance. He flips to face the wall, if only for symmetrical purposes. He’s not as petty as Lance. Nope, not at all. “Goodnight.”

Of course, no one ever taught him that. No one ever taught the other kids at the orphanage to keep their damn hands off him, either. Doesn’t mean that when he’s conscious, he would ever do it _without permission_.

Keith heatedly glares at the wall.

The time ticks by on some ancient clock. The foreign smells, the lack of a vibrational hum of a ship, makes him uneasy. Despite the shifting view of space above them, it’s blatantly obvious to his overtired mind that this isn’t enough to make him feel at home.

All of these things, force Keith to focus on why he’s so mad in the first place.

Thinking back to what they’ve been through over the day, his glare falls a little more, tick by tick. Until it falls away completely, because this—all of this—their arguments after everything, is the stupidest fucking shit ever.

This isn’t how he wants to go to sleep, Keith ultimately decides on. They had a serious moment earlier, and Skit was right. They can’t keep bottling things up like this. For better or worse, they need to continue making progress.

He has a choice here, to make this better. He has a choice here to be the bigger person, and try to make things at least heading in the right direction again. If Lance wants to continue being stubborn, then so be it. But he’s resolute in his decision as he flips back over, hoping that giving himself time to cool off in his own head might lead him to find the right words to say for once.

Or at least, better ones.

What he hasn’t anticipated, is that Lance is already there. On his side, staring at him with  remorse in his eyes, saying his name softly enough that Keith finds whatever speech he was conjuring up die in his throat.

“Sorry,” they end up blurting at the same time.

They laugh uneasily at the synchronicity, because it’s like they’re suddenly in tune with each other. Like a switch that’s been turned on from the memory sharing that can’t just be flipped off whenever they feel like it now.

“Keith, no,” Lance brushes over him, “You have nothing to be sorry for, I’m being such an ass about this whole thing. Like really? You were sleeping. How could you have known?”

“Yeah, but…” Keith insists, because he isn’t going to let Lance be the one to take all the blame. “But like, I get where you’re coming from. That’s a, you know. That was a weird situation for...someone like you. Understandable you reacted that way.”

Heterosexual, internalized homophobic panic, Keith thinks. A common straight boy problem he may have overlooked. Sometimes, he forgets those are problems that still exist, that not everyone is riding a bit of a Kinsey scale like he’s sort of always thought.

“No, I’m definitely being a dick, I think.” When Keith doesn’t respond, because that’s extremely true, Lance huffs an indignant, “What, not gonna deny that at all now?”

“I mean, you _were_ being a dick.” Keith shrugs a shoulder, which lifts the blanket enough that a small puff of air blows back Lance’s bangs, exposing the way his eyebrows jump. “So no.”

“...Right. Yeah. I was.”

That remorse washes back over Lance, showing clearly in the blue pools of his eyes. There’s never been an honest reaction that Keith couldn’t read just by looking into that piercing gaze, and he accepts Lance’s apology wholeheartedly, any remaining anger fizzling out in his veins like a soda going suddenly flat.

“I may, uh, have been overreacting about that,” Lance says, voice going soft. “It wasn’t—wasn’t that bad. Very, you know, like you said. Minor brushing. Not a big deal.”

Lance immediately glances away. Busies himself with that off-centered focus, as if something interesting is happening above Keith’s head again. Keith draws his lip between his teeth, trying hard not to laugh at the pained look Lance has on his face.

“Oh. That so?”

“...Yeah. I’m sorry. Today was rough for you, and I’ve been a total jerk these past few days. I—I should have talked to you about this earlier.” Lance pulls an even more pained face, like he’s just been forced to drink cherry cough syrup. “There, I said it. You were—ugh— _right_.”

Surprised by his full honesty, Keith smiles. “I’m proud of you. Must be hard, admitting I’m right.”

Nudging a playful foot into him, Lance doesn’t retaliate in any other way but with a weakly grumbled, “Yeah, yeah, don’t rub it in.”

Now that that’s been dealt with, Keith feels like he can go to sleep comfortably, and he reaches for the pajamas left for them at the foot of the bed. His bodysuit is gross and sticking to him with sweat, and he can’t wait for the relief of some looser clothing. He offers Lance his pair, who flushes slightly, before propping himself up without a word and then turning sharply away from him.

It’s a little awkward, no doubt about that. Keith tries within everything in him to keep his eyes glued elsewhere as he undoes his suit and pulls the tunic on as quickly as he can. But as he feels Lance shuffling under the sheets next to him, getting completely naked and redressed, he can’t help but think about it.

Can’t help but wish he could see those cute, freckled shoulders again, that lean torso and soft golden brown skin. About how it might feel to run his hands along the smooth planes of his muscles and over the small curves of his body. Which leads him to wonder, what Lance might look like elsewhere, the parts of him he’s never gotten a clear glimpse of before.

He’s so close, all Keith would have to do is turn around and extend an arm out. He shouldn’t do this, but—

When Keith peeks over his shoulder despite his brain screaming at him not to, Lance is just about to pull his shirt over his head. The elegant bend of his neck practically beckons for Keith to run his tongue across it, to sink his teeth in and mark it. His bare back is beautiful under the moving lights, his shoulders blush kissed and dotting more freckles that trail about to his mid back. And there’s a pink scar, large and thick, spread out like spiral flames over his spine. The afterimage of a burn, that Keith guesses is probably from when he got caught in the explosion to save Coran.

Keith gulps. Lance’s breathing is raspy, and loud through the dark. Lance is wrangling the tunic over his chest, sighing audibly as he begins to turn around, and Keith whips his head back forward so fast it hurts. The changing ordeal is over in a matter of minutes, but it damn near felt like hours.

When they lay back down, they gravitate like magnets, facing each other. Lance blinks back at him silently. He doesn’t say anything else other than, “Hey,” as he reaches over and tucks a strand of hair back behind Keith’s ear.

Keith doesn't flinch away. If anything, he leans into it.

His eyes must be playing tricks on him, because he swears Lance has been gradually getting closer. Lance’s lips curl into a smile, and it eases some of the tension from between them. The tips of his ears are dusted pink. It's sort of cute.

Keith watches the way his gaze trails to his lips.

“Hey,” Keith echoes, licking them subconsciously, nervously.

He forgets everything about what they were talking about, forgets why he cares. Lance looks nice in this misty twilight, with it hitting his pupils in all the right ways, reflecting the blue in them to the point they appear unnervingly unreal.

“Look, can I...try something?” Lance asks.

He’s closer in that moment, closer than they’ve ever been _before_ falling asleep. Keith doesn’t count the spooning, because facing each other head on like this, well—

Makes his skin itch with sweat, among other things.

Lance’s fingers are fiddling with the sheet, his breath fanning hot against Keith’s cheeks. “You can tell me to stop if you think it’s weird, but...can I?”

Keith scoffs, “Depends on what it is.”

Inwardly, his heart picks up speed. He isn’t going to do what he thinks he’s going to...is he?

After all, Lance _did_ just learn beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s gay, something he’s really only mentioned in passing to the others. Even if Lance had been around to hear that at some point before, it’s doubtful he was paying attention.

The absolute acceptance of his past memory, the way he spoke as if he understood Keith’s plight, like he was talking from experience—

Has given him this weird hope he really shouldn’t be having.

Keith shrinks away the tiniest bit. He isn’t prepared for that _now_. Not when he doesn’t have time to think it over, time to refocus and remind himself that this is Lance, not some frivolous encounter he can forget about by morning. He’s getting ahead of himself, anyway, is the thought he uses to keep from full-on panicking.

Lance would probably never want to do any of those things in the first place, not with _him_ —it’s obvious he likes girls, has a crush on Allura. Even if he did like guys, too, he’s more than made it clear he’s highly uncomfortable with the accidental sleep groping. Whatever reasoning he has for that, can’t be ignored.

“Just let me do this, dammit,” Lance says more forcefully, more in his normal exasperation, “You can push me away or whatever afterwards if you don’t like it, but please, don’t make me actually ask for it.”

Keith’s breath hitches, against everything in him screaming to keep himself under control. “What the fuck are you even trying to—”

He doesn’t get the time to properly blink again—warm arms are wrapping around his waist, and dragging him forward. Lance is tucking his head into the shelter of his chest before Keith can get the chance to evaluate what in the world this is all supposed to mean. He can only lay there limply, allowing himself to be held.

It’s as much a nice feeling as it is a mostly foreign one. He breathes in the scent of Lance, rubbing his face against his shirt, not able to get enough of how good it smells.

“This feels better, doesn’t it?” Lance murmurs gently into his ear, “Having someone hold you.”

Keith can’t bring himself to respond. There’s only shock, the sound of the walls in his mind crumbling ever so slightly. His arms move of their own accord, snaking around Lance and clutching on tight to the back of his tunic.

“That’s why you’re always waking up attached to me like we’re some freaky conjoined twins or something.” Lance shifts his leg and allows Keith to slip his own between it. “I get it. You don’t have to explain yourself, just go to sleep. I’m not worried about my dick.”

The last strange thought Keith has, as the haze of warmth, comforting smells, and the feel of Lance’s hand pressing reassuringly against the small of his back drags him to sleep, is—

Maybe he should be worried.

Maybe he should be.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Callback to that minor part in chapter 3, Keith feeling proud about knocking out a bully for the first time, if anyone remembers it. You guys probably thought I wasn’t gonna mention that again, but I couldn’t get it out of my head. Keith’s first really happy memory since his mother abandoned him. Wow. Pass me the tissues too, cause this kid...jfc.
> 
> The next two chapters are jam packed with some memory immersion fun, to lighten these poor boys up a bit before things really start heating up. I know this all was a lot to take in (and damn, a lot of material, I think these two chaps were around 18k alone) so I’d love to hear everyone’s thoughts about it! Thanks so much for patiently waiting for more, you guys are the best <3


	14. A Pier of Dorks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “See something you like?” Lance teases, “I know, this new workout regimen is working wonders for me, but please. Try to contain yourself.”
> 
> He brushes the tips of his fingers over what can barely classify as abs. Still, the lean muscles there are taught and beckon for Keith to knock his hand out of the way so he can draw his own fingers across them.
> 
> “Uh, that’s, what, abs?— _no_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all can thank [deecherrywolf](https://deecherrywolf.tumblr.com/%20) for this gratuitous frottage scene ;)
> 
> Also, another HUGE thank you to [warmybones](http://warmybones.tumblr.com/) for translating the lyrics to Corazón Boomerang and helping me out with the Spanish nuances!!

Sometime during the night, Lance stirs to the sound of Keith’s heavy breathing, curling against his ear.

He's unconscious, but hard and aching, caught within the throes of some imagined passion. One in which he might be clutching onto a moaning, trembling Keith, within the bleeding remnants of a dream.

A dream featuring too many hot fingers teasing bare skin and soft lips inching across his tender neck.

Because Lance is wrapped tight around the real thing, grinding gently into the warmth that surrounds him, his mind involuntarily chasing after the feeling of Keith’s body pressed neatly into every curve of his own.

He may be groaning, may be drawing his lips over Keith’s fluttering pulse. Dead to the world, completely unaware of the way the real Keith grips him harder at his backside. Completely unaware of how Keith levers his leg to work his thighs open, canting his hardness into him.

Searching desperately, for his own sleepy sense of relief.

They move together silently, except for their harsh rolling breaths, rubbing against anything they can get. With sloppy, off-kilter movements, since neither of them is exactly aware of what they’re doing.

Keith scrambles for purchase on the back of Lance’s tunic. Lance grips a handful of his hair, which is damp with sweat.

It rewrites, translates into their subconscious, with Lance pulling it as he drills into Keith from behind. For Keith, it lines up the same—the same storyline, transferring, melting into his thoughts like their minds are now one single unit.

And he’s taking every pounding of Lance’s hips, crying out as his neck is wrenched back by his hair.

Each dream they’re having is laced on the brink of orgasm, a fleeting high they can’t reach quite like this. But they try. Their hips snap and grind, roll and chase friction. The bed is creaking, thumping with the weight of them writhing together.

The fake stars twinkle above them, cracking into a bright, golden sky. Pulsing with a heady glow that shines down on them as they grow more erratic, as they call out for the other, and then settle back into a slower lull. Until they ease into tender touches, careful explorations, like they’re real lovers basking in an afterglow.

Until they’re hugging, frozen once more, in a loose embrace.

And still, they sleep on.

 

* * *

 

When Keith comes to, he’s acutely aware of being watched.

Blinking back sleep, he groans at the pretend sunlight warping on the ceiling above them. He’s groggy as fuck, the bed is warm and now smells like Lance, so he really needs to just pull Lance back into him and—

“[Good moooorning, Vietnaaaam](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wuk8AOjGURE)!” An obnoxious voice screeches directly into his ear, ripping Keith from any remaining happy feelings. In an instant, he’s up with his fists in front of his face, ready to punch the consciousness right back out of Lance.

“Oh, shit,” Lance exclaims, rolling off the bed to evade the reflexive jerk of his arm.

He’s tipping over his own legs into a perfect somersault, with a certain grace that Keith’s never seen before. Keith pauses in his rage from the way that awful noise startled him, because Lance’s tunic rakes up nearly to his chest as he pushes off the mattress. With his back bowed neatly and his sculpted thighs slotting together as if this is the way he naturally gets out of bed every morning, Keith feels the buzz of interest start low in his gut.

And he thinks, _fuck not now_ , because he’s forgotten that he often wakes up with morning wood, and Lance certainly isn’t helping with that as the reminder of it twitches against his stomach. Shrinking back under the covers to quickly rearrange himself, he can only hope Lance didn’t notice.

Lance pokes his head up over the edge of the bed, cautiously, when Keith doesn’t respond. By then, Keith has made sure his stupid boner is in an acceptable position covered entirely by the tunic.

The jerk still has the gall to grin back at him. “Hey, is it a little too early to be this loud? Heyy, too late!”

Keith tosses a pillow at him, which Lance doesn’t manage to dodge this time. Serves him right.

“What the hell were you even doing before I woke up?” Keith grumbles, anything to make embarrassment less of his focus. “Just sitting here, planning the best way to annoy me?”

“Something like that.”

Lance flashes a mischievous smile, all teeth. He curls his fingers into the bedspread, remaining in a squatting position with his chin resting upon it. There’s a smoldering flicker of bright blue up to him, through long, dark lashes that almost has Keith groaning out loud.

Keith doesn’t understand why sleeping with Lance now translates into him ending up unbearably horny. His fingers itch to do something about it, while simultaneously restraining themselves within the sheets, because no, just—no.

“Did you know you have exactly ten freckles on either side of your face?” Lance says with a tilt of his head, slowly blinking eyes seeming to gauge him for some reaction. “What the fuck is up with that? It’s like every part of you refuses to be anything less than perfect. I hate you so much.”

“You were watching me sleep, quietly counting my freckles for who knows how long,” Keith retaliates. The gravity of that reality sends involuntary shivers running down his spine. God, he hates Lance. “Could ask you the same thing. What the fuck is up with that?”

“There’s nothing up with it, n-nothing!” Lance surrenders his hands in the air, like Keith’s pointed some metaphorical gun at him. “I was just bored, and you know, the door’s locked still—”

Keith hops off the bed. He can’t sit there another second uselessly riling himself up like this. He pads over to the door, twisting it furiously open without any issues. He gestures to it, raising his brows.

“Well, yeah, sure, _now_ it opens,” Lance is huffing, popping up and pacing around as he spouts off what is probably, all bullshit. “I swear, it didn’t open when I tried, like five minutes before you woke up!” He ticks off reasons frantically on his fingers. “Because that was around when _I_ woke up, so I quietly counted your stupid freckles out of boredom instead, and then got tired of that and woke _you_ up, so—”

“Lance, just shut up. Please. It’s too early to hear your excuses.”

Hearing his voice in general is the real problem for Keith. The real problem that won’t get his dick to catch the hint that it’s not going to be hearing said voice moaning for him anytime soon.

Keith breathes in slowly. Channels his thoughts into desperately trying to think of something else.

The thought of Lance watching him while he sleeps, is something he would like to forget about  as quickly as Lance seems to. There’s something about it that churns his gut even hotter, and if he thinks about it any longer, he can throw any relief of not having a hard-on through their morning exercise right out the window.

“In all honesty, I don’t want to know your reasons.” It’s not a lie. “Okay? Let’s get ready to go.”  

When Keith gathers his suit in one tight fist, changing in silence turned away from Lance, there’s an odd soreness when he bends at the hip. Undoing the tie of his shorts, he flushes when he realizes that they’re damp at the seam, and he tries hard to ignore the stain he has a feeling he knows isn’t just sweat.

So that’s why. It isn’t unusual for him to wake up with that problem, but it is doubly embarrassing to know that this happened right while he was sleeping next to Lance.

Fortunately, the tunic drapes down far enough that nothing is visible, and Keith shrugs the shorts off first. He tucks them discreetly to the side of the room, hiding them from sight. Tugging the bottom half of his suit on, he winces, wondering what kind of muscle he could possibly have managed to pull in his sleep.

“Ugh,” he hears Lance bemoan behind him, “I’ve got such a damn crick in my back.”

Keith pauses. Steadies himself with a deep breath.

It’s probably nothing. That means nothing.

But it’s hard to convince himself of that when he turns around to find Lance, hand rubbing on the small of his back, forehead scrunched in pain. His tunic is off.

And there's—

There’s a small blotch of purple stretching along his collarbone, the visible impression of teeth marks laced into his skin. Lance, oblivious to the current inner crisis Keith is going through, lifts his eyebrows, smirking as he catches him staring.

“See something you like?” he teases, “I know, this new workout regimen is working wonders for me, but please. Try to contain yourself.”

He brushes the tips of his fingers over what can barely classify as abs. Still, the lean muscles there are taught and beckon for Keith to knock his hand out of the way so he can draw his own fingers across them.

“Uh, that’s, what, abs?— _no_.”

Keith turns away, fast. Oh, holy shit. What the hell did he do in his sleep this time? There’s no other way Lance could have gotten a mark like that, except for him to have put that mark there himself. This is horrible. His mind is drawing blanks, he can’t remember even having any dreams that could—

“Hey, buddy, I’m starving,” Lance breaks off his panicking thoughts, dressed now and cheerily coming over to drag him away by the arm. “Let’s go get us some alien grub!”

He’s doomed, Keith thinks.

So, so doomed.

 

* * *

 

Keith is acting weird.

They’re walking back to the common room, tiptoeing around another giant sleeping hound that’s snuggled up with Cornbread in the hallway. Keith is usually a pretty quiet guy, though this is extreme, even for him. Lance has been running his mouth the entire way there and he hasn’t told him to shut up once.

That’s got to be some sort of record. By this time, he should have thrown at least three insults his way. Lance looks over at him as they walk, but he’s too busy staring pensively at the ground, like the floor has the answers to life, the universe, and everything written within the dusty boards.

Lance slips closer to his side. “Penny for your thoughts?” he says, making his tone accented and sleazy, like a mobster about to cut a deal.

Keith jumps away from him, nothing short of looking like a cat shocked with ten thousand volts of electricity. “Gonna need more than a penny,” he mumbles.

When Lance laughs and asks, “What?” he just brushes him off with a curt, “Nothing.”

It’s not very convincing, but Lance doesn’t push it. Keith, as he’s already well aware, is far from being a morning person. He’s not particularly bothered by getting the silent treatment, as he feels extremely well-rested this morning. Despite having a sore lower back, it’s like he’s had the deepest, most satisfying sleep of his life.

Either beds on Munnin are extra comfortable, or being able to sleep with Keith again is like the universe’s best cure to insomnia.

As Lance skips to the kitchen happily, drawn in by a sickly sweet smell, he’s thinking it’s most likely the latter. Memories of snuggling up to Keith, of feeling his even breathing playing against his neck when he woke up, made him want to never leave the bed. He’d watched him sleep for who knows how long, smiling at the calm sight, figuring he wouldn’t get many opportunities to see Keith unguarded like that again.

Warmth seeps in his cheeks. This is as bad as it is good, because beyond a shadow of a doubt now, he has an incredibly deep crush on Keith. There’s no denying that, but it remains up in the air whether Keith feels the same. Gay or not, he’s still an unattainable thing, someone so far out of his league it’s a wonder he even indulges in his comfort in the first place.

Lance doesn’t let these thoughts ruin his good mood. If anything, they make him all the more motivated. There’s nothing better than seeing the way Keith stares blankly and goes mute every time he flirts with him, which Lance is unabashedly doing on purpose now, because who is he kidding?

He can’t help himself.

The fate of Voltron seems like such a small blip on his conscious’ radar every time Keith watches him with those questioning eyes, with that sad stare that calls for him to try and make Keith realize he’s someone who should always feel wanted.

Keith doesn’t seem to recognize when he’s being hit on, which makes it all the more tempting. This morning was nothing short of a victory, since for the first time that he’s noticed, Lance managed to get a nice rise of a flush from him.

Which could also mean maybe, not all hope is lost. And maybe, Keith isn’t a completely oblivious lost cause who will refuse love once it’s sent his way.

They’ve made it to the kitchen doors. Lance is about to jump through, when Keith stops him with an arm whipping out quickly across his chest, with such force, Lance nearly feels the wind knocking out of him. Curiously, he raises an eyebrow at him.

Before he can ask what’s wrong, Keith is speaking what’s on his mind anyway.  “I’m...just a little nervous about our next assignment. That's all.”

Staring straight ahead, he doesn’t meet his eyes. Frowning, Lance feels that familiar clench around his heart. Oh, that’s it. Understandable, considering yesterday’s events.

“Me, too, man,” Lance says, wrapping a reassuring arm around his waist and dragging him through to the kitchen. “It’ll be okay, though. I’ll go this time, don’t worry about it. Lancey-Lance will come to your rescue, yet again!”

Lance can physically feel the way Keith cringes in response.

 

* * *

 

In the kitchen, Sparti is grinding something in a wooden bowl, standing on a chair lifted on his toes, in order to reach the counter. Skit is propped on said counter, pipe in hand, wings curled around him to keep in the massive amount of smoke that’s filtering out from his mouth.

They both look over as they enter. Sparti flicks his line of sight away, swishing his tail disinterestedly, but Lance can see how he keeps one eye trained on them from the corner of his gaze.

Skit waggles his claws over at them. Eyes on Keith, but snarky smile definitely aimed towards him. “Heh, I see you’ve both slept quite we—”

“What’s up, kiddo?” Lance interrupts.

Leaning over to inspect what Sparti’s making, Lance wonders what it could possibly be. It smells nice, like roses dipped in a rich strawberry sauce. The mixture immediately looks less appealing, a syrupy brown mess of some liquid and plants that are bubbling like a witch's stew, and he quickly moves away from it.

“I’m steeping these leaves, leave me alone,” Sparti grumbles in response.

“You always this cranky? Or is the morning especially bad?” Lance teases. Sparti grunts, focusing slightly away from the bowl. Lance nudges his elbow into Keith’s side. “You know, I think you and Keith here have some things in common.”

Keith shoves him away. “Knock it off! You woke me up by screeching like you were a dying furby _into my ear_ , of course I’m not going to be happy about that.”

“See what I mean?”

Lance smirks, uncaring about the pain of being pushed into the table. That earns him a nice laugh from Sparti. A small victory, but Lance will take it.

“You're kinda silly,” Sparti tells him.

“That's one word for it,” he can hear Keith remark under his breath.

Suddenly, Lance is reminded of home, of his nephew attempting to help him stir pancake batter before dawn. How he would often get the better half of the ingredients on his shirt and face. Sparti is wearing the tiniest apron, but he’s having a similar problem, the lack of proper motor control to keep everything from spilling over it.

Lance misses mornings like this. He’d always been a happy early riser, so he was used to getting up with the kids, helping his sister-in-law or aunts out with watching them when they were particularly tired. Mornings where his family would sluggishly wander into the kitchen over time as they got up, laughing at the mess they made, helping clean up the mass amount of dishes they’d used as they talked and laughed and sometimes danced to the radio.

Sparti glances at him, his eyes blue, probably sensing his thoughts in a way. He’s quiet, frowning somewhat. Definitely less annoyed than he was a second ago.

“He’s making a new batch of nepenthes,” Skit provides as a belated explanation, smiling lazily, voice low and raspy. His eyes are yellow, bloodshot. “Herbs we use to relax clients and open minds and shit.”

“I’d be making a lot more if you weren’t smoking everything I’ve gathered.”

Sparti makes a move to swipe at his pipe, but Skit holds it above his head, far out of reach from his short arms. “The more you have to make, the better you’ll get at making them. I’m teaching you a great lesson. This is what apprenticeship is all about, little dude.”

Sparti tries to hide a smile. “Yeah, yeah.”

Turning, Skit tilts the pipe to them. “Palidudes. You want some? Fresh is the best. It’s not L-pin, but it certainly still packs a real punch.”

“Uh, no thanks.” Lance puts up a hand, because no way is he going there again. “I’m not about to put chemicals into this fabulous body.”

Keith eyes it curiously. His arm is just stretching out to accept the offer when Lance smacks it away. “Dude. Really?”

Keith shrugs and folds his arms. “What? It looks interesting.” He sniffs the air, lines of his face relaxing and mouth crinkling into a small smile. “Smells good, too.”

“There’s no chemicals in this, it’s actually quite healthy for you,” Skit says, “but suit yourself. Doesn't matter much, the smoke sort of settles into your pores, so you’re likely to get a contact buzz either way.” He finally lets his wings out, and billowing smoke follows. “Haha, enjoy.”

Lance hops away from it, letting out a high-pitched screech, and everyone laughs at him.

The atmosphere becomes easy, calmer. It could be the drugs, it could be the nostalgic feelings washing over him, but Lance relaxes, allowing them to poke fun at him without getting too annoyed about it. Keith is smiling wider, too, sending him a look beneath low casted eyelashes that makes him feel like the luckiest man in the universe.

Maybe Keith doesn’t like him the way he wants, but he’s the guy sleeping in his bed every night, so life can’t be all that bad. Lance can’t really remember what the problem would be with that, anyway. All in all, it sounds like a pretty sweet deal.

They’re served an interesting breakfast, a gelatin like substance and biscuit things that are hard, albeit full of flavor. It isn’t on par with Hunk’s cooking, but it isn’t bad. In fact, Lance feels his hunger growing tenfold the more he puts into his mouth, his taste buds overwhelmed with sudden sensation of flavor.

“Shit, this is good,” Keith voices for him. Lance is glad he can say the words he can’t manage as he stuffs his face.

Faintly, he can make out Sparti giggling as Skit reaches a wing over to tickle him with it. It launches him into a sharp reflex, where his tail jerks from its mission into gripping a spoon, accidentally catapulting some gelatin straight into Keith’s face.

Keith is only phased for a moment. Within seconds, he shares a knowing smirk with Lance, and then they’re both throwing some back. Teams are formed—Keith and him, neck and neck, Skit and Sparti, unconventional rivals. Food is flying, reminding both of them of simpler times, reminding them of a time where they may never go back to, but—

But Lance knows when he sees Keith laughing, that it will all be okay, somehow.

“Goofing off again. Why should I have expected anything less?”

A new voice draws Lance away from the happy fog settled over him. He looks up to see he isn’t the only one—the silence instantly washes through them all. Thick, tense. They all pause mid-throw or mid-shield. The pleasant buzz begins to fade away from his body.

Kevin is in the doorway, behind the actual doors, wearing a disapproving frown. He looks more haggard than he did the last time they saw him, and Lance can sense how uncomfortably weird it gets between him and the other mind-melders.

Sparti drops the mush grasped in his hand, guiltily hanging his head. When Skit sees that, his eyes narrow.

“It’s okay to have some fun, you know,” he’s saying, with no small amount of venom, “No need to always be in mourning, you stingy—”

“Northern Hall Immersion Chamber,” Kevin commands them, turning on his heel, but not before they all feel the burn of unforgiving red irises. “Ten doboshes. You _will_ heed my warnings this time.”

 

* * *

 

In the Northern Hall Immersion Chamber, things aren’t as weird. Kevin seems to have lost his brief temper for now, anyway. Or maybe he’s just relieved to see they followed his orders, which Lance thinks he better be, because all of them basically had to run at full sprint in order to make it on time.

“Since both of you have completed your first assignment, though not entirely in the way I would have had you go about it,” Kevin explains while briefly looking to Skit, who grins without shame, “your next assignment will be a little less demanding emotionally. I know that the melding takes some getting used to, and you’ll have plenty of time on your own with the chips to share what you’d like.”

They both nod in understanding. Lance feels a nervousness creeping up his spine, still, despite the attempt to reassure them that it won’t be as bad. Who knows what crazy thing they'll have to do next.

“At this point, you may have noticed some mild side effects,” Kevin drones on, “I assure you, this is completely normal and a natural part of leaving the first phase.”

“Side effects?” says Keith, at the same time Lance asks, “Hold up, what kind of side effects?”

“Nothing too bizarre, but simply, an increased mental connection that is for the most part, temporary.” Kevin conjures an image in his hands, two small figures melting into different scenes exemplifying what he’s explaining. “The resulting bond can form in many small ways. Our most often reported claims from clients are an increase in shared dreams, feeling the other’s presence despite not being near them, an ability to sense the other’s thoughts or emotions, or predicting what one of you will say before actually speaking.”

“Whoa, sweet. Telepathic powers!” Facing Keith, Lance clamps his fingers to his temples, giving him an intense stare down. “Keith, quick. I’m thinking of a number between one and one hundred. Read my mind, what is it?”

“Uhh,” Keith looks toward the ceiling, forehead scrunching adorably in thought, “Forty-two?”

“Nope.” Lance almost feels bad for being the cause behind Keith’s resulting frown. “That was a trick question, I was actually picturing that meal Hunk made the other day. Damn, that was really—”

“Good?” Keith supplies, looking even more determined to give the right answer. Really, it’s too early for Keith to be this cute.

“Holy shit,” Lance gasps, “It _does_ work.”

Leaning back in his chair, Keith smiles proudly. “Knew it.”

“That’s not what he means, you dipshits, it doesn’t work like that,” Sparti barks to them, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You can’t just at will force yourselves to...oh, whatever. Never mind. Pointless trying to explain it to you Earthlings.”

“I thought it was kind of sweet. Quit being so bitter, L.D,” Skit chimes in. His lidded eyes suddenly pop open all the way. “Oh, that reminds me, there’s paperwork you need to do, like asap. I messed up some stuff cause I was too high the other quintant, so you’re gonna have to refile basically everything.”

There’s a long pause as Sparti turns to glare at Skit. Keith and Lance stare awkwardly on.

“I really hate you,” Sparti eventually says, not even trying to hide the venom in his voice.

Before the situation escalates, Kevin dismisses them with a flick of his tail, images zapping out of his hand in a fuse of annoyance. “Skit, go assist him with it. This was your error, and currently, I hate you a bit as well. I had to deal with the badlands, and now this. You're all giving me a fucking headache the size of a phluron.”

Skit flutters his wings, disgruntled, but still smiling. “Love you all, too. Alright, peace out Palidudes. Don't do anything in each other's minds that I wouldn't!”

And then they’re gone, leaving the three of them alone again.

“I'm feeling like that's bad advice,” Lance says, to break the weird silence that follows in the wake of less people. Keith nods in agreement.

“It is,” Kevin sighs, “If anything, don't do anything he _would_ do.”

He leans back in his seat, eyes flitting over them tiredly. At first, Lance considers suggesting maybe he take a nap instead of wasting his energy on having them frolic around in each other’s minds, but Kevin continues talking, picking back up right where he left off as he strokes a claw absently through his beard.

“As I was saying, this assignment can only be carried out through immersion. While you may conjure up memories if need be as you are there, this is all about setting. Since I heard you had a particularly emotionally draining experience yesterquintant, I want each of you to share a place from memory where you enjoyed being. Preferably somewhere peaceful, or interesting. A place you felt safe at.”

“Does it have to be from a certain time?” Lance asks, giving a careful side glance to Keith, who he can feel has tensed up at his side.

“Any time in your life is fine. As we’ve only seen Lance’s memoryscape thus far, I’m intrigued to see what yours could be, Keith.”

Keith licks his lips. “Do I...have to go first?”

Kevin tilts his head, feathers flattening back down. “Not at all. But I would like for you to participate this time. I’m sure there’s somewhere nice that you could show Lance.”

“It’s cool, I already told him I don’t mind going first,” Lance says, much more prepared for what might come next this time around. “I know the perfect place, and it’s gonna be so good Keith is gonna have to try twice as hard to show me something better.”

Leaning back on the couch, Lance crosses his arms and legs, smiling. “So, beam us down, Scotty!”

Kevin shoots them a blank look.

“He wants you to take us in,” Keith explains, sighing. “He’s just saying it in a really stupid way.”

 

* * *

 

 

The ground drops, and so does Keith’s stomach as he’s jerked back to a familiar reel of memory. He wasn’t sure if he’d see it again, but it’s there, flitting different images of Lance’s past spinning around his head.

Nothing seems to be in any sort of order now, more a literal stream of consciousness. There’s younger bowl-cut Lance laughing and aiming a slingshot at two girls who have similar facial features as him—probably more relatives. Teenage Lance, working at a small cafe, sneaking a cookie to some little kid. Slightly younger Lance, shoving that brother Keith saw in that first memory, right off the bed he’s sharing with him.

The image swirls in scenery, showing flashes of Lance participating in swimming and surfing competitions over the years, with him wearing Garrison issued swimwear and diving into the pool that Keith rarely visited himself.

Garrison issued swimwear consisting of only a tiny, tight orange speedo that hugs his hips and ass into a shape of perfection that Keith can hardly believe exists in real life. Yeah, it’s probably for the best he never went down there, because there’s a melting vat of memories of Lance practicing laps in that tempting little thing.

Then there’s Lance kissing a dark figure beneath some pier. He’s got them cased against the wood, their feet treading in shallow water, in an angle where Keith can’t quite make out who it might be through the dark and how fast it all drifts away.

Keith curls his hands against the air, fingers flexing in something too close to jealousy for comfort. So, Lance isn’t entirely inexperienced like he’s always assumed.

More races past him before he can dwell on that for long.

There’s a period of Lance arguing or getting into fights with his siblings or parents. Lance groaning about always getting hand-me-downs, crying about kids teasing him as his mom tells him to hush while she sews the holes up in his faded shirts. A very young Lance, donning space themed pajamas that his arms and legs are much too long for, peering around a corner in the dead of night spying on his parents arguing about money, before one of his older siblings takes him back to bed.

And of course, a very familiar sort of Lance, dancing around, pinwheeling his arms and jumping up and down desperately trying to get anyone to pay attention to him. In every shot that it happens, some other kid or baby is getting focus, at home or at school. Sometimes his mother or father are there, eventually looking over at him, only to say something dismissive in a weary voice that makes Lance stop moving and frown.

Keith never considered there might be a more difficult side to having such a large family, more focused on the fact of how nice it would be to have so many people who loved you, but he can understand as well as anyone how hard it can be to always get along with someone. He knows the cruelty kids can sometimes be capable of. Finding any sort of privacy, too, must have been a nightmare.

The last memory he sees makes him laugh, though. It’s a very ashamed, blushing older teenage Lance, with his head turned to the ground and the tips of his ears burning red as his mother waves around what appears to be some porno mag in obvious distress. In the backdrop of it, another older brother is laughing, clutching his stomach and making lewd gestures until Lance notices it and goes over to kick him in the shin, which makes his mother screech louder.

By the time Keith tumbles onto the planks of something hard and wooden, he’s still laughing, even as current Lance hovers over him and offers his hand.

“What are _you_ so happy about?” Lance asks, rubbing at the back of his neck, like he’s afraid to know the actual answer.

“Oh, nothing,” Keith manages to say between laughter, allowing Lance to tug him up. “Was just wondering how many times your mom caught you hiding playboys in your room.”

Lance’s cheeks flush. “Too many times, man. Too many times.” Clearing his throat, he coughs into his hand. “Then...there’s that one unmentionable time where she discovered the playgirl, but I managed to somehow pin that on my sister, Veronica, thank fucking god.”

Pointedly, he looks away, off towards a point past Keith’s head. “Totally worth it even though I had to do her chores for ages. I found out later though that Veronica snuck it out of the trash, and when she was less mad, she let me have it back and promised she wouldn’t tell...”

While Lance smiles fondly, mumbling about how sisters can be good sometimes, Keith’s eyebrows jump in surprise.

“Play _girl_?”

Keith takes in his surroundings at the same time—darkness blankets the sparkling sand of the beach. He can hear the gentle roar of the ocean somewhere behind him, a thunderous chirping of cicadas and other bugs. Humidity wraps its thick arms around them in the heavily moisturized air, and Keith can already feel his hair curling up from it.

They appear to be on an extended part of a pier.

“Yeah, I was pissed.” Lance leans back against a weathered, wooden railing, eyes narrowing as he thinks about it. “Those sorts of things aren’t easy to get a hold of back home. I spent like two months worth of allowances on it and had to go to some seriously shady places.”

That wasn’t exactly what had Keith’s attention. “So you…” He tries to work the question as naturally as possible off his lips, “Uh, you know…”

Finally, Lance looks at him and catches onto what he’s more hung up on. The embarrassed flailing doesn’t return, only a gesture of nonchalance as he says, “Got curious? Yeah. What can I say? Beautiful people are beautiful people, _I just want to find my half orange_ _,_ whoever they may be.” [1]

Keith gets a face full of finger-guns, but Lance’s eyes glint with something Keith can’t really interpret, something that drops his lids low while he stares him down. Keith doesn’t know why he bothered to ask. This is _Lance,_ after all. The insatiable flirt, the cocky womanizer with some of the worst pick-up lines Keith has thankfully never had the misfortune to be on the receiving end of.

And it’s terrible, because for some crazy reason, he’s simultaneously pissed that he _hasn’t_ been. Lance is at least _curious_ about being with a guy, maybe even has been with one in the past, and Keith must be a fool for not picking up on it earlier.

He wonders why he’s never caught Lance’s eye enough to be on the other end of that admiration. He wonders why he’s feeling so childish and jealous about this, because he knows better than anyone that just because someone is interested in the same sex, doesn’t mean they automatically already like everyone of the same sex.

But selfish as it is, Keith wants that from him. He wants that attention, no matter how painfully cringey it is to watch from afar.

There’s a lot more that Keith wants to question about what he means by all this, but Lance is tugging him up the pier, back towards a commotion of bright lights and sounds that instantly overwhelms him.

They approach the entrance to a theme park, where a cracking sign above them has peeling Spanish text, probably something welcoming them in. Lance has conjured some general crowds milling about for aesthetics sake, or maybe he just finds it lonely without that. Although Keith has never been to a carnival or anything of the sort before, he imagines being at an empty one that still appeared open, would probably be rather creepy.

Keith stares in awe as they cross over from the end of the pier into the main plaza. A multitude of lights are flashing, illuminating the area in a soft, inviting glow. There’s cheerful music playing, simple melodies lilting into the air from the rides around them. Various booths are open, where the fake people are buying delicious smelling fake food, their imaginary arms drawn around each other as they wait in unnecessary lines.

As they make their way across a well-loved brick path, Keith stares at the countless tropical flowers, beautiful blooming shrubberies lining the landscape around everything. He’s never seen anything so complexly colored, like an artist who’s carefully constructed each leaf and bud in a vast palette on their 3D canvas.

“So…” Lance draws out, squeezing his hand and bringing him back to the present. “Where do you want to go? Wanna check out one of the rides?”

“Um…”

Keith pauses to think, watching some of the rides spin and twirl, how some fly into the air and others trudge along closer to the ground in wide circles. His eyes tilt from some toy looking train nearby, up and up, until they’re locked onto something that has excitement rolling deep in his chest.

“Definitely that,” he says with confidence, pointing to it.

Following the direction of his hand, Lance’s eyes light up along with him. “Nice, the ferris wheel! Sweet, great choice. That was my favorite growing up.”

Laughing, Lance continues dragging him along, until Keith finds the common sense to pick up his feet more and race with him. By the time they reach the giant circle winding into the star freckled night sky, they’re enjoyably out of breath, and Keith can’t help but laugh from Lance’s contagious giggles.

There’s a person working the ride, in a booth taking tickets from some others and allowing them in. As they approach, Keith can make out a forked tail poking out from their uniform, barely concealed horns pushing up their baseball cap.

“Kev, my main man!” Lance says, holding his free hand up for a high five. When Kevin just stares blankly, not understanding the gesture, Lance sadly, slowly, puts it back down.

“Don’t mind me,” Kevin says, tilting down the sunglasses he’s wearing to better look at them, “I’m merely here to observe the area for...security purposes.”

Keith notes that he seems distracted as he glances away, as if searching for something around them. Quickly, he pulls aside the chain, ushering them in. “I’ll be around on the outskirts, but please, do not let that deter you from enjoying yourselves.”

“Thanks,” Keith tells him, out of polite habit.

“Wearing sunglasses in the dark. That guy doesn’t fuck around,” Lance whispers to him under his breath, “What a boss.”

They climb into one of the hanging open carts that creaks to a halt in front of them. Keith looks warily at the thin metal door Lance locks in place behind them, wondering if that’s going to be safe enough, but then immediately thinks their odds of getting hurt in the memoryscape are probably slim to none.

In any case, he’s sure—or would _hope_ , that Lance could conjure up something to break his fall if need be.

“This is sort of an old park,” Lance explains as the slightly rusted thing squeaks shut, “Not much money for maintenance, as it’s more of a local hangout. Tourists don’t really go here, which is why it’s awesome. Super cheap, too, so it was easy for my ma to let us run free around the place after school.” [2]

They sit on opposite sides across from each other, as there’s not much space in the little benches for more than one body.

“I like it,” Keith says, with conviction, running his hand along the bar. It’s cool to the touch, and for a moment, he runs his fingers along the grooves of it, getting lost in the illusion of being here again. “It has character, and the plants and stuff...it’s amazing. I would...would have loved to see it, the real thing.”

“What are you talking about?” Lance smiles, as the ride groans back to life. “You _are_ seeing the real thing.”

They’re lifted up. Not fast, in the way Keith expects after seeing the other rides spin past him, but slowly, rotating around like a jack-in-the-box being winded by an invisible hand.

Keith stretches his neck into the breeze that flows over them, hair whipping around his face as he sets his smile towards the twinkling stars and lights slightly blurring as they move. The smell of the ocean is salty and thick in the air, and it isn’t long before he’s looking down onto the tops of palm fronds, the people and cars tiny underneath them like children’s toys.

It’s the perfect amount of peaceful and lovely, despite not being a place Keith would have immediately thought of in those terms, as crowds and social situations aren’t much of his thing.

But here—it’s nice. He could really see himself going here with Lance one day, back on Earth. Could see them heading out with Lance’s family, meeting them, then privately setting off to do their own thing somewhere around the park.

It’s a thought that has Keith warming up even more than the temperature is already doing.

Suddenly, he’s aware of Lance’s eyes on him, just as intense and hot. This time, the normal hair tie around his wrist appears without him having to ask for it.

While Keith ties his hair back, he faces Lance again, who makes a show of looking away. Whistles an idle tune, as his cheeks darken under the low light.

He’s pretty like this, golden skin bathed in all the different colors interspersed with the bright, full moon that catches them directly in its spotlight the second they make it to the top. They go around like that, silently, a few times. Neither one of them making a move to talk or do anything else, but to listen to the mix of soothing noise, to take in their surroundings.

Keith finds his gaze settling back to Lance more times than not. Finds himself frowning, after a minute of observing him, and seeing the longing way his glossy eyes take in the scenery.

Then, about their fourth time around, the ride comes to a grinding halt when their cart is perched directly on top. A halt that teeters Lance into him, and has Keith reaching out towards the bars as Lance falls forward on his chest.

“Shit,” Keith steadies himself, head spinning a bit in the backlash as their cart rocks nauseatingly back and forth. “Is this...is this supposed to happen?”

“Only if you want it to,” Lance says in a low voice, staring up at him, nestled neatly against him.

He’s warm. Soft and pliant, like when they’re cuddled up in bed together, his breath whistling out in waves onto the bare skin of Keith’s neck.

Keith blinks at him in response. “Uh...what?” He asks, not understanding at all what that’s supposed to mean.

“Um, I mean!” With his eyes widening, Lance scrambles away from him. Runs a hand through his hair, in a decidedly not Lance-smooth way. “Yeah, you know. It’s a thing. That happens on ferris wheels sometimes. Like, when they’re letting people off one-by-one, or just in general. You can get stuck up at the top waiting for a while.”

Lance pauses, wringing his bottom lip between his teeth, before saying softly, “I thought it might...might be fun if I...”

“If you what?”

“Look,” Lance sighs, twirling a hand into the air. “You’ve got to promise not to make fun of me, okay?”

Keith grins, shrugging before he lifts his arms over his seat, slouching back on it. “That’s a big promise to make.” When he sees the way Lance deflates, though, he drops the teasing act. “Hey, I’m kidding. Do whatever you want.”

That suggestion seems to carry a lot more weight with it than usual, for some reason. Maybe it’s because his day started off already weirder than most, what with the heavy, unresolved tension in his gut seeming to rise back from earlier.

Keith tries hard not to pay attention to it. Especially as Lance conjures a guitar out of thin air and settles it into his lap, with an excited grin blossoming over his face.

“I’m a bit out of practice, obviously, but…”

His hands fall into place, natural, as if he’s done this thousands of times before. Plucking the bottom string, Lance cocks his head as he listens, before winding one of the pegs at the end of the neck. The resulting twang is loud, grating and off for a moment, but after a few more winds and strums, the melody gradually evens out.

“...but I thought it might be nice, up here. Thought you might like it.”

Keith doesn’t know how to respond. Every word gets stuck like molasses hardening in his throat.

There’s no guide here on how he’s supposed to react to a cute boy wanting to play a song for him. Surely, no other guy has ever tried to entertain him like that before, and it’s the last thing ever that Keith was expecting Lance to do.

Here, in this breathtaking place. Just him, Lance, and the stars of his hometown as their only witness.

So Keith watches, dumbfounded and with tense anticipation, as Lance tunes the guitar, string-by-string. Holds his breath tight in his chest, as Lance sticks his tongue out as he concentrates, his eyebrows jumping when he gets the keys lined up the way he wants them.

He doesn’t seem bothered by Keith’s lack of reaction. No, he simply lines his fingers up into place on the frets, pressing in on the strings. Brushes his other hand down over all of them, experimentally, nodding when the chord strikes in all the right ways.

He switches to another, something lower. Not playing anything in particular, but with fingers dancing fluidly from one shape into the other.

It’s then that Lance looks up to him. There’s no cheeky grin there anymore, but a much more serious expression, as his hands falter and start tripping up over each other.

Keith sits up straight again. He more than knows what that look means, now.

“So?” Keith prompts, nudging their knees together, gently swaying the cart. “What are you gonna play for me?”

Lance stares at him for a moment, before shifting to more determined. His hands fall back into place, firm, purposeful.

Keith swallows, hard.

“Something beautiful,” Lance murmurs. _Like you_ , Keith hears filter into his mind, from somewhere that definitely isn’t falling from Lance’s lips.

[Then, Lance does.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fW8YSc1UORY)

The tune that starts up is soft, nothing more than a whisper into the night, with this sad sort of edge to it that has Keith’s heart doing all sorts of weird flip-flopping around.

Keith doesn’t know where to look, at first. Lance’s fingers are doing their own sort of mesmerizing performance, flitting around like butterflies trying to figure out where to land.

But as Lance opens his mouth, bellowing out a matching tune into the night, Keith can’t take his eyes away from his face. To the pain that sits there, beneath the surface, wringing itself into words with pretty sounds.

 

_It doesn’t do you good to be jealous_ _  
_ _Forget those crazy doubts_ _It’s me who carries what happened_ _and I know it’s hard for you_

 

What comes out as Spanish, things that Keith can’t fully comprehend, twist and turn themselves into meanings he can understand, somehow. Like before, when he heard the people on the beach, the last time they were in Lance’s mind.

Sinking back in his seat, Keith melts, entranced. He had no idea Lance was capable of making noises that were outside of the realm of annoying or too abrupt. That were more powerful than the honest ones he lets slip out, when he’s feeling more vulnerable, and allowing himself to cry in his arms.

This is a subtlety, a side of Lance he’s never known.

That maybe—that maybe no one else has really ever known, either.

 

_They are things that stay inside_

_Pieces of soul that I can’t find_

_Scattered after a sincere love_

 

 Keith doesn’t get any time to take it all in. Something about the lyrics, about the way Lance can’t bring himself to look up and meet the shock that’s surely resting on his face, has Keith hanging off of every tiny movement his mouth makes. Off of every word, deep and unspoken, that still lies in that gap between them.

 

                                                   _That happened a long time ago_  
_and it ended in that moment_  
_when I found the sugary taste of pain_ _  
_                                              _in your mouth_

 

And Keith can’t help but feel a truth here, lost in it all. Something real, but dark. Something that pieces that gap together, until he can actually understand what Lance is trying to say.

It doesn’t have to do with the fact that he doesn’t really know Spanish. Doesn’t have to do with the fact that he’s emotionally stunted from being able to reach out, from lashing angrily at people in ways he’s never meant to.

Keith shifts a little as Lance continues into the next verse, his tempo increasing, words slipping out slick like honey from his lips. Their knees knock together once more, and Lance presses into him, leaning forward. Sharing the touch like a current, connecting and electrifying their bodies, with Lance showing off the smooth coordination of still being able to let out a soft laugh around his words while continuing to play.

  
_I have to admit_  
_I couldn’t handle my pride_ _  
_                                                             _of man and hunter_ _outwitted by the most harmless prey_

 

For the first time, Lance peers up from under his lashes, focusing his gaze onto him. _Really_ focuses on him, lips curving into sounds around the ghost of a smile and an almost pleading raise of his brows. The fingerpicking tapers off, but the full rumble of chords pieces in its place.

And when Lance goes into the chorus, Keith _knows_. Not entirely aware of what Lance means by all this, but the feeling he gets, strikes him deep like that note being plucked.

The feeling that he’s cared about. That he’s

Sweat’s covering the back of Keith’s neck, his palms. His mouth is dry and his pulse is racing in time with each slap of the strings.

 

                                                     _My heart was a boomerang_  
_It’s not that easy_ _  
_                                                _And I threw it with kamikaze hope_

 

Lance’s bottom lip quivers. His fingers fly over steel, over wood, as he closes his eyes and loses himself again. The melody rings out, louder, from his throat, from his hands. From his soul.

Interweaving a story, that has no clear ending, and no clear beginning.

__  
_My heart was a boomerang                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   I_ _t’s not that easy_  
                                     _And I threw it with kamikaze hope_

Yet, in that moment with the moon reflecting off the curves of a face Keith has become so painfully familiar with in sleep, Keith realizes exactly where it needs to start.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] quiero encontrar mi media naranja - Spanish saying that lit. means “i want to find my half orange”, an expression for someone who is searching for their soulmate. That they want to find “the better half to their soul”. Lance is using this here to exemplify that he doesn’t care about gender identity when it comes down to how much he just wants to find someone he loves.
> 
> [2] I’m loosely basing the park they’re at off a small theme park in Havana called _Isla del Coco_ , formerly known as _Coney Island_. It’s an inexpensive place near the coast that pretty much only locals visit. I say loosely, as it was renovated recently, and I don’t think the ferris wheel is quite as high as I’m making it out to be because it’s designed mostly with children in mind.
> 
>  
> 
> So….I heard through the grapevine that Jeremy says Lance can play the guitar……………..
> 
> The full lyrics of the song Lance is playing, _Corazón Boomerang_ by Habana Albierta, are available [here ](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1pKT8D0NcskHRm7pLU_tTgEpD87SCSO-vF4FEAQXreCw/edit?usp=sharing)(courtesy again of [warmybones](http://warmybones.tumblr.com), seriously, thank her! I wouldn’t have been able to give this translation otherwise!). 
> 
> I am so sorry about the overdue update! I spent a lot of time editing, cutting out some original scenes to put in better ones, or having them spill over into the next chapter. Because I’m going this pretty much alone, I hope you all can understand that creating this longer and more plot heavy story takes quite a considerable amount of time for me to put together. That being said, I hope this chapter was well worth yours! I promise the next will be much sooner :) Thank you for reading & all your lovely feedback <3

**Author's Note:**

> back on my bullshit on [tumblr](http://lemonistics.tumblr.com/). stop by and say ayyy


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